


Possession: Extended Story

by BlueEyesBlueSkies



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Because I'm super excited and super terrified at the same time, Drama, F/M, I hope you like it, I'm going here with this one, Oh my god you guys, Older Man/Younger Woman, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 03:18:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 88,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7342513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyesBlueSkies/pseuds/BlueEyesBlueSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A warm hand slid into her own, graceful fingers twining through hers, shocking her so suddenly she felt her nausea retreat immediately. Bending her neck to look down at the barely roughed fingers cradling her own, Sansa saw Lord Bolton’s thumb begin to trace lazy circles over the knuckles on the back of her hand, and she felt the calming effect of those circles seep into her very bones. The tension drained out of her almost immediately, and she heard those around her release sighs of relief as they saw the color creep back into her cheeks and the light slip back into her eyes.</p>
<p>Sansa she looked down on the strong hand steadying hers, the long graceful fingers wrapped up with her own, and felt the clouds in her head start to clear. With a deep breath, a tightened grip on the hand of her groom, and a silent prayer to the gods old and new, Sansa opened her mouth and repeated her vows. </p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>An extended story, spun off from my one-shot Possessed, which received such a warm welcome. A Roose Bolton/Sansa Stark love story, with as many dark and twisted windings as only the two of them would have. Please enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok you guys, I am seriously blown away by the support for the one-shot, Possessed!!! I’ve decided to revise and open this work up into a longer story, because I just can’t seem to stay away! ☺
> 
> SO if you’ve read the one-shot Possessed, then some of the text/interactions will look familiar as I have stretched it out to mold it into a larger work. I promise after the first several chapters it will all be new, though there are and will be plenty of changes starting immediately in this one from the one-shot. If you haven’t read the one-shot, there’s no need! 
> 
> Please review and let me know your thoughts.
> 
> Enjoy.

As she pulled on the gray silk gown her mother handed her, Sansa thought she very well might be sick. Her mind spun, a thousand thoughts flitting through her head as her knees shook so hard she’d have bruises by morning. 

Barely a week after the Imp had returned her to her mother and brother, they had already planned to marry her off. And not to a knight or a lord, not to someone young or handsome, not even to someone kind. 

They were marrying her to the Lord of Dreadfort, to the man whose sigil was the flayed man, to a man so cold, so callous, so cruel, he was barely spoken of except in harsh whispers.

In less than an hour’s time, Sansa was to marry Lord Roose Bolton, himself.

Her stomach roiled, a nest of vipers tangling in the pit, and a sheen of sweat broke out over her brow as the maid brushed her hair and plaited it in tiny braids around her head. Her heart hammered away so loudly she nearly choked on the force of it, and it was only as her thoughts took a bitter turn that she was able to pull herself out of it.

It was only due to her lady mother that Sansa was even here in the first place. After month after month of torture, of beatings, of strippings, of whippings, finally, finally help had come. Ser Jaime Lannister strolled into the throne room every bit the knight in shining armor, demanding that she be released and returned at once to the Stark host. 

The discovery of his dismembered hand at the hands of the Bolton’s caused quite a stir, and it was by the scrape of her teeth that Sansa and the Imp made it out before Lord Tywin Lannister could recall the order. Sansa had never so fervently thanked the gods.

It wasn’t until they were nearing camp that Lord Tyrion chose to spoil what little happiness and hope she’d built up at being reunited with her mother and brother, and the thought of it still made her cold all over.

“You know, Lady Sansa, that you are only free of your beloved Joffrey because of the soft heart of your lady mother, don’t know?” He’d drawled, disdain and amusement dripping in equal parts from his slithering tongue. 

“What do you mean, my lord?”

He’d chuckled, dark and humorless, and the sense of dread washing over her certainly turned out to be in just. “Why, your own brother was willing to leave her in King’s Landing, permanently, rather than trade my brother for you and your sister. Now that I think on it, if your mother hadn’t helped Jaime escape, you very likely would be knelt before the crown in the throne room as we speak.”

The eloquent way he spoke only made the sharpness of his words cut more deeply, and Sansa tried to protest and tell herself it was just another one of the Lannister lies she’d grown so accustomed to.

Until she was indeed returned to camp, and by the look on her brother’s face she’d known in an instant it was true.

Then, rather than welcoming her with open arms, they’d marched her straight to his war room tent, sat her at a table with a glass of watered wine, and interrogated her for nigh on through the night about her time in Kings Landing. The questions ceased for only a few hours sleep, and before Sansa could blink the sleep from her eyes she was once again seated at the head of that long table, peppered with questions, forced to relive her torture, her fear, her every moment since they’d first stepped foot in King’s Landing.

She would never forgive them for it, Robb or her mother. 

A call from beyond the flap of her mother’s tent broke her reverie, and with a fresh wave of nausea Sansa turned to face Lady Catelyn, white as a sheet and sweating anew, and the pity in her mother’s eyes did nothing to dissuade her fears.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek as her mother paced towards her to keep from voicing yet another protest to her union to the Leech Lord, as her betrothed was referred to. It would do no good.

“You look beautiful, Sansa,” her mother whispered wistfully, raising a fragile hand to brush the backs of her fingers over Sansa’s cheek.

“Thank you, mother.” The courtly courtesies wouldn’t abate, wouldn’t die, no matter how her heart thundered or her blood curdled with dread.

“See that you please him, Sansa,” Lady Catelyn said firmly, eyes flinty as she stared at her daughter. “See that you give him no cause to harm you. He is known for being a harsh man.”

If it wasn’t so ridiculously terrifying, Sansa would have laughed.

Even after hearing of how Joffrey had stripped and whipped her in front of the entire court. Even after hearing of how she’d watched her own lord father die. Even after hearing of the mental torture she’d been subjected to by every Lannister in sight. Even after hearing her, night after night, coming apart from her dreams with screams. Even then, they still saw fit to marry her to one even her own mother warned her was a monster.

With a wave of dizziness so fierce she thought she just might faint, Sansa was struck by the hopelessness of it all. What could was it to escape a life with one monster, only to be married to another? What did it matter? At least with Joffrey, the evil was known. The unknown had her pulsing in panic, fear radiating off with every step as her mother led her to the tent, to her groom. To her doom. 

And before she could blink, they were in front of it, the flap was being lifted, and she was being ushered inside.

“Lady Stark,” the cold voice, barely above a whisper, sent a shiver of fear down her spine, and made her legs turn to jelly as she made her way in to greet her betrothed. 

Sansa, ever the courtly little bird, inclined her head in what she hoped appeared gracious, but likely just looked the jerk of someone about to have a fit. “Lord Bolton,” she replied in greeting, her voice overly loud, overly tight, lending itself more to a squawk than the demureness she so desperately prayed to the old gods and new for. Please let him be pleased, she thought in a panic. Please let him think me beautiful, and be pleased.

Her limbs were shaking as she felt her mother push her forward, and Sansa noted that the black leather of her future husband’s boots here stained at the tips with blood. As her breath started to come in shallow gasps, she realized with a start that she had yet to ever, in her life, look Lord Bolton in the eye.

While other members of her brother’s court piled into the tent, encircling them in the center, Sansa inhaled a shaky breath, summoned every last nerve she possessed, and raised her chin up from the floor to take in her lord husband. With a gasp, Sansa found the look in her future husband’s eyes had the noise all but fading to a distant hum. His head was tilted, smooth face blank and calculating, while his ice-like eyes pierced her in the candlelight. She had the strong sensation the prey must feel when spotted and studied by the predator, and the faint flicker in his eyes with his nod of approval told her that her groom was quite pleased with his catch. 

Thank gods, she thought with a sigh of relief. At the very least, upon initial inspection, he hadn’t found her lacking. It wasn’t a dream, wasn’t even much to go on, but at least it was more than nothing. 

She allowed to shoulders to relax just slightly as her eyes rolled over her groom once more. He was older, nearly as old as her father, and yet the smoothness of his skin made him look years younger. His thin brown hair was starting to fade at the temples, and she realized his hairline would only continue to recede in the years to come. His eyes were the color of steel at the moment, far more luxurious than just a plain gray, and Sansa found herself contemplating how strangely desirable she suddenly found the color, how she wanted to run her fingers over a steel sword, it glinting and catching in the light, how she wanted to feel the coolness against her skin, how she…

With a flicker and a narrowing of the corners of the ice eyes she was drowning in locked on hers, Sansa had the distinct impression he was attempting to prompt her. Confusion graced her brow and she flicked her lips down into a frown in response. She flushed crimson at being caught staring, until the blood left her head to pool in her feet so quickly she physically fought back the swaying sensation. A sick feeling of dread washed through her, coiling until it bubbled in her stomach, when she saw the mask Lord Bolton wore dip down into a frown.

He was displeased, and a thousand thoughts flitted through Sansa’s mind, too quick to catch, but at the center of it all was a deep-rooted fear ingrained in her that he was about to strip and beat her, or worse, for whatever offense she had inadvertently just caused. Her mother was right, her worst fears were realized, and she was very much jumping out of the pot and into the frying pan in her union to the Lord of the Dreadfort.

“Sansa” her mother’s voice cut through the fog and fear, pulling her out of the depths of terror in which she’d begun to drown in those ice eyes. Her mother. How could she do this to her? How could she wed her to a man who would likely kill her once she’d born him a son.

Oh gods. The wedding night. Her eyes were widening further in terror. They would have to… he would be… she would… Oh gods. How could they be so cruel?

“Sansa,” Lady Catelyn tried again, and Sansa noted with queer bemusement that her mother’s tone expressed a uniquely shrill quality, one she’d never heard before, one which bespoke the miles of sorrow she’d travelled, and the miles she still had yet to go. 

Good, Sansa thought bitterly in despair. She shouldn’t be the only one to suffer.

Sansa swallowed down the discomforting thought and blinked, eyes widening with recognition as she realized everyone in the tent was looking at her with faces that reflected mixtures of horror and unease. Her eyes flitted to her mother briefly before returning once more to Lord Bolton before her, and she tilted her head a fracture in question, feeling the nausea and anticipation nearly overwhelm her to the point of swooning. 

“The Septon was attempting to guide you through your vows, my lady,” Lord Bolton replied, his voice so soft, so smooth, smoother than the steel of a sword, and she felt herself leaning closer to him in spite of herself.

Until she processed his words. Then, she felt herself flush crimson in shock and shame, before paling in an incomprehensible measure of fear. Her eyes welled with tears, and she could only stare at him helplessly, wordlessly pleading with him not to beat her right then and there for her dishonor, for his shame.

The steel in Lord Bolton’s eyes sharpened, and when he opened his mouth to speak Sansa felt herself visibly flinch. Her heart pounded as his jaw froze open, and as he watched her carefully she had the head spinning notion she might very well make water on herself, or her stomach may heave, or both, if he did not just punish her and end the tortuous anticipation. She was only this afraid when she was beaten and bloodied before Joffrey, and she had lost every ounce of strength she’d had long before she made her way to this tent.

His jaw snapped shut with a click before it opened once more, and he was watching her carefully, eyes never leaving hers as he addressed the Septon. “Please, start over,” he said softly.

Sansa’s head whipped to the left suddenly, and she wondered with more than mild concern at how she had managed to miss the entirety of her marriage ceremony to Lord Bolton. She carefully trained her eyes on the Septon’s face, watching his lips form the words, repeating the entire terrifying process of sealing her doom, and she tried, truly tried, forcing her ears to listen. When he settled his blank gaze on hers, she began to open her mouth to respond. 

As she sucked in a breath, Sansa could only part her lips in horror, as the blood rushed down from her face and her hands began to shake while her stomach roiled and revolted. She had the distinct impression she was about to be sick, and with barely contained terror her eyes started to flitter wildly for some solution.

Where were her words? Where? Say something, Sansa! Oh, gods, say anything! Tears welled in her eyes, her heart pounded so loud she was sure they could hear her all the way at the Wall, and she prayed to the gods old and new that they just strike her dead on the spot.

A warm hand slid into her own, graceful fingers twining through hers, shocking her so suddenly she felt her nausea retreat immediately. Bending her neck to look down at the barely roughed fingers cradling her own, Sansa saw Lord Bolton’s thumb begin to trace lazy circles over the knuckles on the back of her hand, and she felt the calming effect of those circles seep into her very bones. The tension drained out of her almost immediately, and she heard those around her release sighs of relief as they saw the color creep back into her cheeks and the light slip back into her eyes.

Sansa she looked down on the strong hand steadying hers, the long graceful fingers wrapped up with her own, and felt the clouds in her head start to clear. With a deep breath, a tightened grip on the hand of her groom, and a silent prayer to the gods old and new, Sansa opened her mouth and repeated her vows. 

She heard the lord at her side quietly repeat his vows, his words steady and unwavering, as she watched his thumb dance circles and trace patterns over her hand, weaving in and out and around her knuckles, lulling her into a sense of calm. With a gentle squeeze, Lord Bolton prompted her, and Sansa immediately tilted her face and blinked her blue eyes up at him, watching as he searched hers intently once more. Sansa swallowed and, with what little strength she could muster, squeezed his hand lightly in response. With a curt nod from her now husband, Sansa’s eyes fluttered shut while he took a stepper nearer and sealed their union with the faintest of pecks to her lips. 

Sansa heard the booming cheer of the Greatjon behind her, and those in attendance hesitatingly clapped, while her husband kept a careful hold on her hand, turning to present his new wife and lead her from the tent to the small feast. She felt like she was holding on to a lifeline, holding on for dear life, as the man who gave not only her own mother and brother, but even a Septon, unease, cradled her small hand gently in his own, offering strength and comfort only as he could to his new bride.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so honored by the support this story is receiving so far!! Thank you for reading, giving kudos and commenting! It pushed me to wrap up this second chapter prior to a long weekend.
> 
> As you'll note, starting with this chapter we start to veer of significantly from the one-shot. I do you hope you enjoy. Please drop a comment and let me know your thoughts! :)

Roose was displeased that they’d married in the first place, annoyed and not a bit amused by the irony that the girl who was too good for his true born son had now become his bride. How foolish of the Stark’s to think they could buy his loyalty with a pretty girl like he was some green country boy and not a man and lord grown. He had capitulated, of course, because he hadn’t quite decided which way the most favorable wind was blowing yet, and Roose Bolton would not be forced to move before it was time. No one would force his hand, not even the bloody Starks. And so, with a sigh and a nod he had found himself standing like a fool in the middle of a tent in a war camp, waiting to greet his new bride. 

The look of pure terror on her face when she entered cracked a tiny fissure in his careful shell of disdain, calculation, and general distrust. He knew the rumors she must have heard, knew the caution her mother must have given her. And he also knew the downright brutal treatment she’d received at the hands of her previous blushing groom. But despite all of that, her lady mother and kingly brother still saw fit to marry her off to him. Him, of all people. It would be laughable if it didn’t hint at the larger, unfortunate problems he saw panning out in the future for his current alignment with the wolf king.

The gasp she inhaled brought him back from his thoughts, and he grimly surveyed the woman before him, if she could even be called one yet. He watched her, studied her as she stared into his eyes with a look that was borderline mad while the Septon completed the introductions and prompted her for her vows. Her eyes were vacant, and she was very clearly far away from here, lost in her thoughts as she stared at him. Her stare was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, and Roose shifted his shoulders at the disquieting notion that she might well be analyzing him too, and find him coming up short. With an internal scoff at that foolish thought and an internal shake when he realized it bloody well shouldn’t matter what the little wolf thought, he narrowed his eyes at her fiercely. And when she only continued to stare, no trace of recognition gracing her beautiful face, Roose startled with surprise that rather than anger coursing through him at the obvious slight, he felt pity instead.

Pity. The Lord of the Dreadfort, who’s banner was a flayed man. The lord who played with two kings, hand to one as he negotiated with the grandfather of the other, skipping the fence of loyalty when he felt it might better suit him and his house. He, Roose Bolton, felt pity.

It was an uncomfortable feeling to say the least, and he felt as though a thousand beetles had taken root and crawled under his skin, rippling over him as he grappled with an emotion he’d only ever heard of with passing irritation. 

When his beautiful new bride, for she was beautiful, even a cold man couldn’t deny it, looked to him like he was her last prayer at escaping the madness she’d barely held at bay, he hadn’t even blinked when reaching out to take her tiny hand carefully in his own. She was ice cold, frozen to the touch, and he did not doubt that if he had reached her a moment later she would have either vomited or fainted dead at his feet. 

Instead, behind his shell of cold indifference, Roose found himself stroking his thumb over the back of his new bride’s hand, seeking to keep her grounded, seeking to keep her present. 

And he hated himself for it. He was disgusted by the behavior, furious with her for sneaking into that little crack in his mask and forcing him to interact with her beyond the disdain and disgust he’d intended. More so, he was furious with himself for not really being all that furious with her at all.

Watching with slight amazement as his bride kept her gaze carefully turned towards their joined hands, he noted a slight shiver roll through her spine while his thumb danced lightly from one knuckle to the next. A shiver, he thought in bewilderment, in what appeared to be actually due to pleasure as he traced his thumb over the porcelain skin and listened to her recite her vows. 

And then, as he squeezed her hand to pry her attention back from where it had once again wandered elsewhere, a second foreign feeling spread to join the first as he felt her hand communicate back to his own, squeezing in return as she shook herself rom her thoughts and she raised her head and looked him squarely in the eye.

He felt… Proud.

Though she was pale as the fresh snow, frozen as ice, and very clearly clinging to a shred of calm in her panic, she was clinging, she was fighting. She, who had been through more than a girl her age ought, who was forced into marriage with yet another monster not even a fortnight later. She was not giving up, not giving in, she was clawing her way back with as much pride and determination and grace as she could muster. And when her eyes met his and he leaned down to seal their union with a kiss, she did not so much as flinch.

Sitting next to his new bride now as he watched her pick at her plate, Roose internally scoffed at his own idiocy. He was actually, acutely proud of his new wife, of her strength of heart, of her ability to take hits and slights that would have had most men faltering and still she kept coming, kept surviving. He’d heard her tale as the little Imp delivered her to the camp at the bidding of his one-handed, Kingslaying brother. She’d been stripped bare in front of the entire court of King’s Landing, beaten and bloodied within a inch of her life, just barely escaping a public rape, and still, his lady wife’s back was straight, her shoulders were strong, and she held her head high as she gazed out upon the merriment before her at their wedding feast. 

What had once felt a slight, and in all truth should still feel a slight, his King ordering him to marry his tossed away sister, whose very maidenhood could not even be confirmed, now felt like a potential gift from the gods these lords and ladies claimed to play for. 

~*~

Sansa could feel her husband’s eyes on hers, always watchful, every studying, as he observed her picking at her plate and watching the soldiers dancing before them. She saw as the Greatjon led her lady mother out into the cleared space, and felt the corners of her mouth twitch into an unbidden smile, so small she was sure only her husband could see it, as she saw her mother laugh and pick up the steps of the dance. 

Her small smile grew a fraction wider as she felt her husband’s fingertips graze the sleeves of the arm closest to him, his touch lighter than a feather, until he carefully slipped his palm under her own. With a small sigh and an even further twitch in her lips, Sansa curled her fingers downward, weaving them through his, and she shifted in her seat until her arm just barely pressed against his own. The hum of approval drifting to her ear made her feel as though butterflies were now taking flight in her chest, and her eyes flicked quickly down to their fingers once more before allowing her lips spread into a true smile for her husband. 

He hummed again as he watched with rapt amazement, and not a small amount of suspicion, while the secret smile he’d seen start only a moment before spread her lips, and her cheeks flushed prettily as his thumb started to trace once again on the back of her hand. Roose felt strange, uncomfortable, and not a small amount perplexed in that moment, watching his new bride flush and smile from the touch of his hand and the press of his arm. He was confused as to why the broken girl next to him was even in his thoughts at all, why she seemed to occupy each and every one from the moment she entered that tent and they were wed. Why should she matter to him? 

Oh gods, that question is even more sickening to him. That means she actually did.

He narrowed his eyes and studied her once more, searching her with barely masked wariness until he watched her lip curl further up into nearly a snarl while all the color and sparkle drained down from her face. Roose heard himself growl in anger (who was this man who had taken over his body?) as he flitted his eyes toward whatever had sent the shadows back onto his wife’s face, and he felt his own lip twitch threateningly towards a snarl in response. 

In the middle of the clearing, bold as brass, Roose saw the stunted figure of the Imp, dancing with Robb Stark’s wife. And not just dancing, Roose noted, while his hand tightening its hold on his lady wife’s fingers while his stomach coiled with disgust. They had the nerve to share a laugh. 

He felt a small thumb start to circle slowly over the back of his hand, and all at once his growling ceased and he relaxed the strained hold he realized he’d taken on Sansa’s hand. He narrowed his eyes sharply as he tucked his head and stole a glance at his lady wife. 

Her face was stony, her eyes unflinching, as she watched the Imp and her brother’s Queen dance and laugh like they’d many a memory and more before, but her body was calm, and her thumb was soothing as she tried, in her own little way, to mirror his comfort from earlier and ease the ruffled feathers of the beast of a man at her side.

~*~

Sansa understood all to well the growl her new husband bestowed upon the spectacle before them, and it was with unbridled pleasure that Sansa recognized her husband’s hatred for the pair matched her own. If it weren’t for the woman he’d stupidly married, Robb wouldn’t be in this mess with the Frey’s. And if it weren’t for the half-man holding the Queen’s hands, Sansa was sure fewer Northmen, including her own dear father, would have had to die. 

Because for all his plotting and scheming, for his quick wit and sharp words, the Imp was reduced to what he really was the day the blade was swung and her Father’s head rolled onto the ground, coming to rest at the Imp’s own two feet as he gaped his jaw like a fish. He was a stupid, bloody fool.

Sansa felt the air shift around her, and then her husband’s breath was fluttering the hair covering her ear. “We will have our revenge, my lady. Consider it my wedding gift to you,” he breathed the promise into her very soul, and with a hum of pleasure, Sansa made known her delight. She delicately squeezed his fingers once more, and thought that perhaps her marriage to the Lord of the Dreadfort wasn’t actually the punishment from the gods as she’d believed it after all.

The music shifted, the bard striking up a slower tune, and all of a sudden Lord Tyrion was before her with a smirk on his face and a challenge in his eyes, addressing her new husband. “Why, you have not danced a single step all night, my lady,” he drawled, eyes shifting between her and her lord husband. “Would you do me the pleasure and grant me this dance?”

His slimy words made her want to retch up whatever dinner she’d managed to force down.

Raising her eyes to her husband, she realized with alarm that he was not intervening on her behalf, merely studying her with cold indifference. She pleaded with her eyes, begging him to say something, to rescue her, to come up with some excuse as to why she could not dance with the Imp. 

But Roose Bolton was not that kind of man, and he would not face her battles for her. 

With a choking swallow and a shaky grip on the hand that had stilled beneath hers, Sansa turned back to the Imp and summoned all her courtly courtesies.

“No.” Her eyes widened with something akin to panic as she heard her voice, felt herself say those words, felt herself refuse to dance with the lord her returned her to her mother and her brother. 

Apparently she was not the only one stunned by her refusal, because he carefully raised an eyebrow in response. “I beg pardon, my lady?” He asked in bewilderment, and just a hint of appreciation, daring her to refuse outright once more.

Well, she didn’t want to dance with him, she didn’t want to touch him, didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to be forced to entertain his company. And so, with a tenseness that belied the coolness of her tone, Sansa found the words flying out of her mouth before she could shut it and catch them and call them back. “I said no, my lord.” 

Lord Tyrion’s eyes narrowed into slits while her husband became perfectly still, like Lady would when she was preparing to pounce on some poor, unsuspecting prey. And oh, the shame washing over her, forcing a blush to her cheeks and her stomach to revolt anew, the shame was swallowing her whole. Not for refusing Lord Tyrion, she was secretly quite proud of that little bold display. No, Sansa was ashamed for embarrassing Lord Bolton, ashamed that her behavior was reflecting poorly on him, ashamed that when he’d given her an inch and allowed her to make her own choice she’d taken a mile. 

As she opened her mouth to retract her refusal and accept Lord Tyrion’s offer, she heard her husband speak quietly on her behalf. “Surely, you would not deny me the pleasure of being the first to dance with my lady wife, Lord Tyrion,” he said smoothly, a thinly veiled challenge hidden beneath his cold detachment and careful stillness. “It is my right to claim it, after all.”

Oh dear, he was furious. He was coiled like a viper readying to strike, his cool words so stiff, so chilled she thought they may slice right through their recipient. And it was all her fault. She felt the bile rising in the back of her throat as she realized that he would very likely punish her for the slight and subsequent confrontation she’d caused, and her heart sank all the way down to her stomach at the thought of what that might entail.

Her spiral of panic was interrupted by a gentle squeeze on her fingers and a thumb rubbing over the back of her hand. She blinked her eyes back to the present and her head snapped towards her husband in response. She felt him debate something as his eyes bored into hers, until with a slight nod she realized he must have come to some form of decision. A wave dizziness washed over her and she thought she might faint as she realized it was likely her punishment he had determined, and she’d better steel her nerves and prepare her mask now because the shame from being beaten once more might be more than he could bear, and why oh why-

“My lady, would you do me the honor of our first dance?”

His voice was still soft, still cold, still detached, but there was so much more to it, so much underlying that she couldn’t quite read, but she knew she found comfort in it, and without a thought she was smiling and squeezing his hand and all thoughts of the Imp were completely forgotten.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare yourselves for the wedding night, folks.

His grasp on her hand was confident and firm as he led her through the steps. The musicians were terrible, she realized as he spun her through the worn down grass, they were slightly off tune, slightly out of rhythm, and mostly comprised of soldiers turned bards. 

But her husband?

Oh my, her husband.

He danced like he had spent his whole life dancing, each and every moment, up until this moment with her, which of course was ridiculous. His steps were light, his holds firm, and he was so graceful she wondered not for the first time to whom, exactly, she found herself married. His cold gaze drifted down to her upturned face, and though his stony exterior didn’t flinch, she thought that perhaps the creases around his eyes softened, just a bit, when he saw her breathless delight. 

Sansa loved to dance, had always loved dancing, and for more hours than she cared to admit she’d pictured her first dance on her wedding night, twirling around the floor with the knight of her dreams. He was handsome, kind, and strong, and he would whisper pretty things in her ear and smile gallantly and all who watched them would sing songs of their love through the end of time.

A thumb started to roam softly over the backs of her knuckles, and with a startled blink Sansa’s head snapped back up and her eyes refocused on the lord before her. His eyes still held hers, and she realized with surprise that in his own way, he was gently trying to keep her present. As the music shifted to something slower he raised his eyebrow to her in question. 

Sansa’s cheeks flamed crimson as she cautiously searched his face. He was truly willing to indulge her in not just one, but a second dance? Tentatively she gave him a shy smile before lowering her lashes and taking a step closer into his embrace, shifting into position for the new dance. She flicked her eyes back up to his and noted with a surprised smile that they looked almost… warm, in the firelight. Blushing further and attempting to ignore the startled stares she felt boring into her back, Sansa tilted her head to rest it against her new husband’s shoulder. 

~*~

Roose tried to tell himself it was just the thought of bedding his new bride that had his pulse racing when she rested her head on his shoulder, but he knew that flimsy excuse would hold less water than a bowl made of parchment. 

She was an interesting puzzle, this little wife currently clasped in his arms. She was painfully young, but had been through so much she was nearly more jaded than her own lady mother. She was painfully timid and unsure, and yet in the face of Lord Tyrion’s inquisition he’d glimpsed a spine of solid steel. Her tongue was soft while her wits were sharp, and the monsters haunting her mind were quite clearly just barely held at bay a majority of the time. 

She also seemed to actually enjoy his presence, if that secret little smile was anything to go by. And he was learning quickly that with just a gentle swipe of his thumb, he was able to steady her when she needed it, calling her out of the darkness closing in and pulling her mind away once more. She wasn’t weak minded, he wouldn’t accuse her of that, and yet she seemed to float away on a moment’s notice, losing herself more than once when something would trigger some form of alarm.

He shifted slightly and frowned grimly. He, and his thumbs, wouldn’t always be around to calm her down. His frown deepened into a scowl at that stupid thought and the odd pang of remorse he felt when he pictured her, scared and alone in her own mind. Why should he care one bit? Why should he even give her a second thought? She was his wife, yes, but his property too, and all he wanted her for was an heir and a spare. Beyond that, she was nothing more than a pawn in his eternal politicking and games. 

He felt a sick feeling roll through his stomach slowly. She was just a pawn. One to be wedded and bedded and discarded soon after. Wasn’t she?

~*~

The horn echoing through the night brought the merriment up short, and with wide eyes Sansa gazed up at her husband. He was still holding her as if they were in dance, and the unvoiced question hovered over her lips as one of his men came up behind him to whisper in his ear. His eyes narrowed as he nodded grimly, and with a start Sansa found her hand firmly pressed against his arm as he strode purposefully over towards her brother and his queen.

Robb’s face was soured with displeasure, and his eyes were hard as he met Lord Bolton’s. “We ride in one hour, my lord. Prepare your best men. I wish to demolish the Lannister raiding party before they are anywhere near our war camp.”

Lord Bolton nodded in agreement, his cold gaze detached once more as he turned and began to nearly drag her towards his tent. 

“Lord Bolton,” her mother halted their progress, coming to stand before him with an odd look in her eyes. 

“Mother, not now,” Sansa interrupted, shaking her head and frowning. 

“Lady Catelyn, make it quick.” His words were clipped, his voice heavy with restrained irritation, as he looked with annoyance on the woman before them. 

“You must bed her before you go, my lord,” her mother pleaded, eyes wide. Sansa felt the blood drain from her cheeks at the desperation in her mother’s voice and the thought that of all things, that was what was most important to her mother as her son and his bannermen road out to war. 

“Mother,” Sansa said sharply, voice breaking off as she felt her husband’s hand squeeze hard around her own. His arm strained against his reducing restraint, muscles pulled taut, and she feared he was struggling to contain his fury. 

But his voice was every silky smooth, unmarred by the tension gripping his body, and the coolness in his tone sent a chill down her spine. “I will do my duty, my lady,” he confirmed, and with that he was pulling her ever more purposefully towards his, or she supposed their, tent. 

Sansa swallowed bravely as she walked where the flap had been swept back, and she held tightly to her husband’s hand as he led them to the table and lit the candle there, bringing a soft light into the room. It was sparse, but felt quite intimate in the soft light, and Sansa felt her eyes drawn to the enormous piles of furs on the cushioned mattress on the floor. 

Her husband’s thumb grazing over the bumps of her knuckles brought her Tully eyes up to his ice ones, and she felt her lips spread of their own accord to a shy smile. A slight darkening of the ice, a nearly imperceptible softening of the mask, and a tiny twitch his lips were her only clue that her husband was anything other than apathetic, bored, or entirely focused on the upcoming battle at hand.

“My lady,” he started, and she convinced herself she could just hear a twinge of regret, “I fear we do not have the time to bed in the way I had wished tonight.” 

Sansa swallowed thickly and nodded, her eyes flickering down below her lashes as she studied the toes of his boots. “It is alright, my lord,” she whispered, proud that there was only a slight tremor behind the soft words. 

“It will be painful,” he said bluntly, and she felt her cheeks flame as her heart started to race with fear. “You know what must be done?”

She nodded, eyes roving everywhere around the tent but to the man before her as she desperately wished she was anywhere else, having any other conversation but this.

“My lady, you should know… If I had the time…” He huffed in annoyance, and when she chanced a look at his usually stony face she watched with confusion as he roughly passed his hand over his face, shaking his head as he barked a mirthless laugh before dropping his hand back to his side. The gaze that met hers was fierce, and the heat in his usually ice eyes made her stomach flutter in the most confusing manner. “I would do my best to make it pleasant, if I had the time, my lady. Perhaps in the future, you will think it so.”

Sansa’s heart sped up alarmingly and she dropped her gaze back to the toes of his boots as confusion graced her elegant brow. “As you say, my lord,” she whispered, fingers of both hands twining and fidgeting with each other in front of her. 

He nodded firmly before jerking his chin back towards the bed and furs. “Have a seat and raise your skirts, my lady.” 

Sansa’s eyes were wide, a mixture of bewilderment and fear dancing over her face, as she followed his instruction and raised her skirts up to her thighs. She blushed so fiercely she was certain her skin clashed with the red in her hair, as her husband stalked towards her, steps light as a panther, before he gracefully settled next to her right thigh. 

“Sansa,” he said softly, and she swallowed at the odd feelings his use of her given name caused to shift in her belly. One long finger slipped under her chin, tipping her head up until he caught her gaze in his own. “I’m not going to bed you for true, child.”

The words penetrated the fog of fear that had begun to cloud her mind, and Sansa could only frown and crease her brow. “But, my lord-“

“There are other ways to claim your maidenhead. If you’ll agree, should anyone ask, to keep it secret.” 

Sansa nodded, hardly daring to hope that perhaps he wasn’t so much the monster her mother had made him out to be after all. “I promise, my lord,” she whispered, tongue darting out to lick her lower lip. 

He felt him pull back slightly to watch as a small smile graced her face once more, the darkness for a moment at bay, before he leaned in once again to whisper in her ear. “Just breathe, my lady. It will be over in a moment.” 

Sansa’s eyes fluttered shut and she sucked in a sharp breath as she felt his large hand settle on top of her thigh, just above her knee. His hand was warm, pleasantly so, and Sansa tried to keep her breathing steady as it started to slide slowly up her leg and towards her smallclothes. 

“We must remove these, my lady,” he said softly, the timbre of his voice down a level as one long finger began to trace the lace lining the bottom of her smallclothes. 

“A-As you say, my lord,” Sansa whispered breathlessly, marveling at the delicious tingles his simple caresses were sending over her skin and through her body. She continued to hold her skirts as his hand slipped up them to gently undo the bow holding her smallclothes to her waist, and she shifted, raised, and lowered herself as he pulled them off her legs and dropped them on the floor. 

His warm hand returned to her mound, and Sansa felt her cheeks burn even brighter than before as he slipped a few fingers in through her curls. With a sharp sense of shame, she realized that there was a dampness beginning to gather near her opening, and she prayed fervently to the old gods and new that he either wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t be displeased. Spreading her open with two gentle fingers, he leaned down to whisper into her ear. “This is the part that will hurt, my lady.” 

Sansa forced in two deep breaths, steeling her nerves before nodding tightly, scarcely breathing as she felt her senses heighten in anticipation. She felt his finger press slowly into her center, and grimaced at the uncomfortable sensation. It was not altogether unpleasant, necessarily, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant, either. As she started to release a sigh of relief, he jerked his finger sharply upward, claiming her maidenhead. Sansa bit down so hard she was sure she’d grind her teeth to dust as she fought to keep from crying out, the pain making her eyes water where she’d squeezed them tightly shut.

His finger removed, and he was wiping her clean with something as she tried to breathe through the pain. Opening her eyes as she felt him gently pulling her skirts out of the tight grasp she’d forgotten she’d had, she noted the white sheet stained with blood resting on the small desk. 

Proof of her maidenhead. Proof that he’d taken it. Proof that she was his. 

His expression was unreadable from where he stood near the desk, watching her as she smoothed her skirts and carefully rose to stand. She kept her eyes averted, wishing the blush that seemed to now permanently stain her cheeks would fade, and she sent up a grateful prayer to the gods when one of his soldiers called from beyond the flap of the tent. 

“My lord, King Robb is preparing to ride out.” 

She felt him approach her and rose her eyes uncertainly to take in the stone mask that was now once again firmly in place upon his hard face. His eyes were flinty steel, his expression fierce, and her heart fluttered in alarm as she realized that in a matter of moments she would be terribly alone. 

“My lady, please make yourself comfortable. This tent is now just as much yours as my own,” he said curtly, before nodding and turning on his heel to stride out to battle.

“My lord,” Sansa called softly, wondering at the painful tightening she felt in her chest at the site of his back stilling at the flap. He continued to face away, but his motions stilled and he slightly inclined his head in response. “I…” Oh god, what was she trying to say? What does one say when their new husband leaves for war? What does one say when that husband is Lord Bolton? Why had she called out? He was on his way, leaving in peace, and she’d had to go and-

“Sansa,” he called softly, still facing away, his normally cold voice abnormally gentle in the night.

All thoughts of panic cleared, and she spoke the only thing left ringing in her mind at the thought of him walking away. “I will pray for your safe return, my lord.”

He turned then, a ghost of a smile turning up the corner of his mouth, but it was the slight warmth in his eyes that truly made her heart flutter in response. “Roose, Sansa. In private and in your prayers, you may call me Roose.” And with a nod of his head, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone following this story, leaving comments and giving kudos! I am having a ball with this one, and am sincerely grateful to all of you who follow me on this journey. 
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter and where we are headed so far! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU to everyone reading, reviewing, following, and giving kudos to this story! Your comments seriously help motivate me to really dive into this one, so I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter as well. It got away from me a bit in length, but I hope that it isn't too long. 
> 
> Please drop a comment, and enjoy! :)

Sansa stared at the tent flap, the flame of the candle flickering out while she perched on the end of the bed. Their bed, she reminded herself. He’d said to make herself comfortable, that the space and the items within this tent were now hers, as well as his. She sighed heavily glancing down to the space between her legs which had bled by his fingers, covered now by her heavy skirts but still just as visible in her minds eye as if she were stark naked. 

He’d claimed her, his long elegant fingers gently probing until they sharply pierced her maidenhead. She was still a maiden in spirit, she felt that acutely as she blushed furiously at the thought. What should it matter? The point remained, if she were examined by a Septa, proof of her maidenhead would exist no longer. 

It was a relief, in all honesty. A relief to be claimed. A relief to no longer wonder where she would be traded, wedded, bartered, auctioned off to the highest bidder, the lord that would most profit the realm. 

The auction ended, the lord determined, the prize won. None would dispute from this moment further. None would view her as little more than livestock, little more than a pawn to be pushed and prodded as her value to the player was constantly reassessed. She was Lady Sansa Bolton now. Her place and purpose were secure; she would no longer hide under furs in the middle of the night, sobbing despondently into her pillow at all she had lost, at the very little she had gained, at the vast amount she still had left to lose.

She was a woman married, a woman bedded (in the eyes of those who mattered), a woman with a powerful and clever lord husband, a woman reunited with her mother, a woman who’s King was her brother. She shivered as her next thought took hold. In truth, she was a woman with a certain amount of power.

There was power in being the sister to the King of the North. There was power in being a pawn for so long in the Lannister’s game—she knew how they thought, knew how they planned, knew what they thought truly mattered in the game. There was power in being the daughter of Ned Stark, the second oldest surviving Stark. And, perhaps most significantly, there was power in being the Lady of the Dreadfort, Lady Bolton. At a minimum, one would paint her lord husband as respected, not only for his bravery and strength in battle, but more importantly for his shrewd intelligence and calculating manner. At worse, one would count him as feared, his cold and distrustful nature and his sharp gaze and sharper wit making him an enigma to those who encountered him, both in a friend’s camp and an enemy’s. For, as her mother had indicated, one could never know for certain which camp one was in with Lord Bolton. 

With a shiver of fear, Sansa’s gaze dropped once again to the buried place between her thighs. A blush crawled over her cheeks as her mind replayed the—consummation—of their marriage earlier this evening. Though he was outwardly every bit as distant and cold as she’d been warned, there was a hint of warmth, so fine seeing it was like trying to catch the breeze in the palm of your hand. But in the gentle caress of his thumb, swiping over the tiny hand of hers he’d carefully cradled in his, she felt it, his warmth, seeping in and driving out the darkest of her demons for the time being. 

Sansa blushed as her thoughts traveled unbidden to the weight of his palm on her naked thigh and his whispered words of the potential pleasure they would find as he’d taken her maidenhead. She bit her lip, desperate to feel the slight tinge of pain, hoping it would keep her from wondering to deeply what, exactly, he’d meant? Certainly, although his finger was… painful, his… manhood (she blushed even more at thinking the word) would be even more so? 

She scoffed at herself, shaking her head and trying to shake the wanton thoughts away. What did it matter if she found pleasure or not in her marital bed? Her duty was to lie with him and birth him many sons and daughters. After the death of his only heir, that was to be her chief concern. Perhaps, the pleasure he’d indicated was the pleasure of giving him a son?

She sighed, knowing full well that was in no way what he meant, but not having a single clue as to what it was he actually did mean. Pulling the furs back and slipping between the sheets of their bed, Sansa laid flat on her back and stared up at the top of the tent, willing her eyes to sleep, but the nagging unanswered questions pulled the strings of her mind taut, until her heart raced when she finally pondered upon an idea. Perhaps she could ask her mother when she came to visit her? For surely, her mother would want to see how she fared after her quite brief wedding night?

With a smile of contentment, Sansa settled further into the furs. Yes, any mother would surely be happy to answer her daughter’s questions. And so long as Sansa phrased it carefully, her mother would be none the wiser to the truth method of their… consummation… that evening. 

~*~

Two nights later, Sansa was sick with loneliness and miserably depressed. Her only visitors for nigh unto forty-eight hours were the maids who changed the linens, emptied the chamber pot, helped her dress and bathe, brought her meals, and then helped her redress and put her to bed. She’d had her embroidery, thankfully, but found that one could only play with the design of the flayed man so much before one felt too sick for supper.

How had her mother not yet ventured to their tent? How was she not concerned for Sansa’s wellbeing? Surely her mother had asked after her, at least? Sansa was far too fearful to leave and wander about the camp on her own in search of her. A few questions to the guards outside confirmed the depressing turn of her thoughts. 

No, indeed. Her mother had not visited, had not sought her out, had not requested her presence, and even her lord husband had left strict orders that Sansa was to be allowed visitors and allowed to move about as freely as safety allowed. But Lady Stark, upon hearing she was able to visit her daughter, had merely inquired with the guards to confirm the deed was done, and wished Lord Bolton to deliver her the sheet upon his return. 

Tears welled in her eyes as she slipped back into her tent the third evening, the enormity of how alone she truly was suffocating her like a vice. Her head started to spin as she felt the gilded cage that had surrounded her at King’s Landing enclose once again, pressing in on all sides, stealing her hope, stealing her very breath, and she realized what a fool she’d been to think that her marriage to Lord Bolton would somehow change her position, somehow be different from the constricted prison she’d lived in with Joffrey. Sansa gasped for breath, air coming in shaky gasps to barely fill her lungs before it puffed out in a rush, and she felt as though her throat was closing in as her heart raced and her head floated clear up to the clouds. Just as she felt the spinning would surely swallow her into a hole in the earth, a loud voice from outside the tent snapped her back to the present.

“Lady Sansa!” It yelled, irritation clear, and she realized with alarm that it was likely not the first time she had been called.

“Y-yes?” She returned softly, forcing the air in and out of her lungs as her head began to float back down to rejoin her body where she had collapsed on the floor of Lord Bolton’s tent. 

“May I enter, my lady?” The voice was deep and rough, annoyance dripping heavily, and Sansa hurried to pull herself up to stand as she beckoned him in.

One of Lord Bolton’s soldiers entered carrying a crate with a folded piece of parchment on top, setting to next to the blazing fire. “A gift from your husband, my lady.”

Sucking in a shaky breath and desperately trying to push the tears from her eyes, Sansa picked her way over to the crate, fingers tracing the edging of the parchment resting on top. “From Lord Bolton?” She whispered softly, before concern suddenly chased out the unreasonable amount of affection she felt bubbling up at the thought that even from a battle he remembered her presence and sent her a gift. “Is he alright?” She asked with alarm, fear raising her voice to a squeak as she turned to the soldier striding purposefully out of the tent.

“Of course, my lady,” he responded with increasing irritation, before he relented and gave her a slight flip of his lip in what she supposed must be his smile. “He should return in no later than a few days time, if not sooner.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Sansa flashed him her brightest smile in appreciation as she nodded. “Thank you, Ser.” 

With a grunt, the soldier turned and departed, leaving her alone with the crate and the parchment on top, its crisp white folds beckoning her like a siren’s call. Her smile still bright she reached out to touch the edge once more, before a voice outside her tent once again interrupted her reverie, this time causing her to huff in irritation.

“Yes?”

“Lady Stark to see you, my lady,” a guard responded, and at once Sansa raced to the flap of her tent and ushered her mother in. 

“Oh, mother! I’ve been waiting to see you! I have so many questions-“

“Not now, Sansa, I don’t have time for your foolish questions or musings,” her mother said irritably, waving her hand at her as she passed her and circled the tent, her eye trailing critically. “Where is it, Sansa?”

Her heart in her throat and her spirits crashing to the floor beneath her mother’s feet, Sansa felt the tears well as she whispered her reply. “Where is what, mother?”

“The sheet, Sansa,” she answered in a hard voice, her intonation clearly implying she thought Sansa was a fool for even thinking her mother could be in her tent for any other purpose. 

“O-o-on his desk, m-m-mother,” she replied, tears falling fast down her face as she watched her mother stride up to the desk and take the folded sheet that was stained crimson with her blood, marking her as a woman truly wedded and bedded.

“Stop those tears this instant,” her mother said sharply, her eyes flinting like steel as she pushed passed her daughter and made her way out of the tent, the sheet under her arm.

“M-m-mother, I thought you wish Lord B-b-bolton to-“

“Sansa! I did not have time to wait for his return!” Her mother’s cold words and the hate in her eyes as she made her way back until she was nose to nose with her tears made Sansa’s weeping begin anew, fresh tears falling down her face as she cowered under the anger she didn’t understand. “Now, if you do not wish to make your life with your husband any more challenging than it likely will be, you’d do well to dry your tears this instant.”

“B-b-but, mother, I only-“

“Your whims are no longer my concern, Sansa,” her mother said coldly, turning once more towards the door as a wave of anger mixed with heartbreak rolled through her, lighting a small flame in the pit of her stomach. How could her mother speak to her thus? Why was she so cold, what made her so angry? And the glint in her eyes as she viewed the blood on the sheet. What was its source?

As her mother stepped out, Sansa couldn’t help the words tumbling out of her mouth. “Mother,” she called sharply, a strange surge of confidence coursing through her as the steel in her tone made her mother turn back over her shoulder. “It is Lady Bolton, to you.” And as her mother’s jaw dropped open in shock, Sansa knew the satisfaction pulsing in her veins was the culmination of heartbreaks and wrongs she’d felt from her mother since she was first returned to her brother’s camp. “That will be all, Lady Stark.”

But when the tent flapped shut and she was left alone once more, she couldn’t help but weep and collapsed on the furs on their bed in despair. What a stupid, stupid girl she’d been. She wasn’t reunited with her mother, after all. 

~*~

Awakening in the middle of the night, eyes rimmed with red from all the tears she’d shed, Sansa glanced towards the fire and realized with a start that in her heartbreak she had forgotten the crate and note from Lord Bolton. Wrapping herself in several furs, she made her way to the chair he’d had by the fire, collapsing down in the heavy paddings and pulling the piece of parchment up to the light to read.

_Sansa Bolton, Lady of the Dreadfort,_

_I had sent for several books and bolts of fabrics for you once our marriage was announced, but they had not arrived until after I was forced to depart. Inside the crate you will find such items, as well as a few additional you may enjoy. While I intended to simply have the crate delivered to you, I suspected you would likely wait until my return prior to opening in fear I would be upset. Thus, please view this as my wish for you to open the crate and explore its contents at your leisure._

_Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort_

With a smile of delight at how astute her husband was, and a bit of bewilderment at how he could know already that she would most assuredly have waited or sent word asking his permission to view the contents, Sansa carefully pried open the lid of the crate. 

Breathing a sigh in awe, she gently lifted out yard after yard of myrish lace and several bolts of thick fabrics dyed the Bolton and Stark colors alike, with enough fabric for her to fashion nearly six new gowns. Beneath a layer of fur, which she discovered to be a wrap to be worn over her gowns, she found several tombs on the history of Westeros, including one entirely devoted to the history of House Bolton. Although she was quite familiar with general history of Westeros, she found the books to be specific analyses of the great wars, the dragons, and even one on the fashions of the times. Finally, in a small box beneath the book on House Bolton, she discovered several bars of fine lavender soaps for her bathes, the scents perfuming the air of the tent and casting it in a warm cocoon bringing tears to her eyes at her new husband’s thoughtfulness. 

With a fluttering heart and a whispering sigh, Sansa mused that perhaps her husband was not so fearsome and cold as the critics believed. Laughing at her foolishness, she shook herself from that dangerous thought. No, he was very much fearsome, calculating, and cold. But he was courteous as well, and the thoughtfulness of the crate warmed her in a way similar to the feel of his thumb gliding over hers. And that, she decided with a small smile, was worth far more to her than a pretty knight with pretty words ever would have been.

She nodded determinedly and picked up a piece of parchment off her husband’s desk, sitting to pen him a note in thanks. After tossing nearly ten pieces of parchment into the fire with a huff, she finally bit her lip and felt she had it just right.

_Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort,_

_My lord, please let me express my sincere gratitude for the contents of the crate, and for your astute note granting your wish for me to view said contents. Though it pains me to admit, I would not have opened the crate unless you had allowed it._

_You were far too generous, my lord, and in future please do not feel the need to spoil me so. Though, the thoughtfulness of your gifts moved me to happy tears, and brightened the darkness that had been circling round me since you left._

_As I have every night and every morning, I continue to pray fervently for your swift and safe return._

_Sansa_

The informal signature at the bottom of the note made her bite her lip, but with a thought back to his request that they be less formal in private, she decided to take a leap of faith and leave off her title. Perhaps this would please him? Perhaps he would see it was out of a shy regard?

Delivering the note to the guard and requesting to be sent with others when they went out to the front, Sansa returned to the piles of furs and snuggled into her chair, warming herself by the fire as she opened the History of House Bolton.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, I know I added a chapter earlier today, but I am totally going to update again. And I'm going to post chapter 6 too. Because I love this story and love this couple and love you all and all your lovely comments!! :D Thanks for the motivation!! I hope you enjoy chapters 5 and 6. :)

Two nights later, Sansa found herself curled up in the bundle of furs once more, halfway through the History of House Bolton, when a guard called beyond the flap of their tent. “My lady, a letter has arrived for you.”

Wrapping herself in a particularly plush fur, Sansa made her way to the flap, greeting the guard and bidding him a good night as she retrieved the parchment. Noting her husband’s elegant script depicting her name on the outside flap, she decided to sit in front of the fire and read his reply. Her heart raced in her chest as she broke the seal and opened it, praying he had not taken offense to her letter of appreciation for the crate of gifts.

_Sansa,_

_The sight of the informal address, and is subsequent acknowledgement and acquiescence to a more informal letter, made her heart flutter in an unusual and completely ridiculous pitter patter as a foolishly wide smile split her face as she continued to read._

_As my wife and Lady of the Dreadfort, I expect you to comport yourself with the dignity and grace befitting your noble house and station. It was blatantly obvious that in order for you to do so, you required significant improvements to your wardrobe. I was happy to oblige, in order to provide you the opportunity to rise to the occasion._

_Do not disappoint me._

_Roose_

While her heart fluttered once more at the sight of his given name gracing the signature, she felt a tightening in her core as she re-read the last line. Do not disappoint me. Hadn’t she been warned of the dire consequences that would bring about multiple times by her mother before her wedding? 

With a sickening sink in her stomach, she began to wonder how drastically she’d misread the signals and signs. If what he wrote was true, then his gifts were nothing more than an attempt to save himself the embarrassment of her dress and behavior. Oh gods, she thought, was he worried she would shame him?

Sansa’s stomach roiled with nausea as her mind raced through the thousands of scenarios in which she would most assuredly bring about the disgrace of House Bolton, and with a panic she felt the tears that had been at bay the past two days burst forth and pour down her cheeks. 

~*~

Storming out of the war tent, bloodied and dirtied from battle and the road, Roose could not hide his displeasure and annoyance. His King, if he so deserved the title, was a gods damned childish fool. They’d barely beat back the Lannister raiders, not before the livestock and people in the villages were ravaged beyond repair, a line of bodies lining the very Kingsroad, mile by mile. And the little Stark shit thought that, rather than pressing onward to run down the raiders and chase them to their graves, they should actually stop and take down all of the worthless peasant bodies from their pikes and provide them with proper burials.

Peasants. Wasting precious time and allowing their enemy to slip into Lannister territory because of gods damned, fucking peasants. 

They’d finally returned to the camp near midnight and met immediately to discuss the plans for attack against the Lannister host, now that they’d traded away their own bargaining chip.

Roose thought to the bride waiting in his tent, and couldn’t help the small smirk spreading over his features as he shoved his way towards her. Not that he minded; he was beginning to appreciate the potential his new bride held for advancing his ambitions, her Stark blood a veritable key to unlocking the North if the young wolf were to tragically fall in battle.

Treasonous thoughts though they were, he snorted at the thought that in all likelihood he was prepared to make a move during the inevitable. The boy’s short-sightedness and soft heart would get him killed; and Roose intended to capitalize fully, in whatever capacity arose. 

Lord of the Dreadfort was merely a stepping stone. Roose Bolton intended to claim the North.

Pausing to order a bath with the guards outside his tent, he pushed in the flap and allowed his eyes to survey the room. His heart thrummed in alarm when he first noted his empty bed and lack of lady wife, until his eyes scanned to the dying embers and unreasonably enormous pile of furs curled up in his chair. Her auburn curls spilled every which way, rolling in wave upon wave down the soft white furs from his bed, and her cheeks were flushed and stained with tears while she slept soundly. Crossing the room as the maids entered with the tub and began to fill it with bucket and bucket of water, he noted that his pretty young wife had fallen asleep with the History of House Bolton spread open in her lap, and the letter he’d sent her yesterday clutched in her fist, now wet with her earlier shed tears. 

The thought that she had cried upon reading it made something tighten painfully in his chest, and he scoffed and frowned fiercely at her as he wondered why on earth he should care if she cried herself to sleep because of his letter. Scowling down at her, gray steel of his eyes blazing, he began to strip his dirty armor off. She could cry herself to sleep because of him; he was Lord of the bloody Dreadfort, for gods sake. But the uncomfortable slither in his stomach as he slipped into his bath and continued to watch his wife made him acutely aware of how false that little thought actually was. 

Wiping away the blood and sweat of the week away, Roose let his thoughts drift back to the last time he saw Sansa, as he took her maidenhead with his fingers and slipped out into the night. Glancing towards his desk, he noted with an irritated hum that the good Lady Stark had already come to claim her prize, the sheet with proof of the consummation.

He snorted, narrowing his eyes as he finished rinsing the soap from his body. The coldness he’d discovered in that bitch made him seem like the Knight of the fucking Flowers. 

It was more than just the inexplicable reason why she would give her eldest daughter, who had just returned from a tortuous stay at the hands of her former betrothed, to the man who was said to be his coldhearted rival in the North. No, it was the blatant disregard she’d had for Sansa when she pled for him to take her maidenhead, and the even worse disrespect and heartless conduct she’d shown her when she stormed in a took the sheet. Roose had felt his blood boil when he listened to his guard’s account of the exchange, overhearing the callous and unfeeling manner in which Lady Stark had dismissed her daughter and treated her like she were no better than the dirt under her shoe.

Roose’s eyes narrowed as they turned back once more to the lady wrapped in his furs in his chair by the fire, and he felt his lips pull into a smirk as he recalled the end of that little exchange. His little wife appeared to have a spine of steel, he’d give her that. In the midst of what he was sure was the beginning of another round of panic and tears, she’d pulled herself together enough to correct her mother for her disrespectful treatment, and dismiss her from her presence. The pride his guard heart in her voice for her new position as the Lady of House Bolton made even his guard swell with pride, and Roose realized with a new sense of appreciation that his lady wife may well aid him more than he’d ever thought initially towards his purposes. 

While he commanded respect through fear, his lady commanded respect through adoration. Perhaps she was more a player than a pawn, after all.

Dressing himself in his smallclothes and a soft pair of breeches, Roose then turned to the problem presented before him, cuddled up in all of his blankets in front of the dim fire. If he were honest with himself, after days of battle and riding, he was bone tired. Now that he’d bathed, he wanted nothing more than to lose himself to a few hours sleep, desperately needed to recharge his mind before the war council reconvened in the morning. Glancing towards the bed once more, he noted with a roll of his eyes that his wife had apparently wrapped herself in every fur he possessed, leaving him with nothing but the bottom sheet left on the bed.

With a heavy sigh, and pointedly ignoring the little smile threatening to spill out over his lips, he strode to the chair and scooped his wife up into his arms, furs and all. As he carried her towards the bed Sansa rolled in his hold, her head tilting to rest against his bare shoulder with a little hum of delight. 

“Sansa,” he said softly, undecided for whether he truly wished to wake her.

“Hmm,” she mumbled sleepily, eyelashes barely fluttering as he gently set her down, furs and all, on the bed. Ignoring the spark of arousal that little hum sent down his spine, Roose made his way around their bed and slid in beside her, pondering the next problem he was presented with. While he had successfully moved both his wife, and more importantly his furs, to the bed, they were still all coiled around her, to the point where he couldn’t even tell if she’d dressed for bed. 

“Sansa,” he called again, the annoyance streaking his soft voice, as he narrowed his eyes and scanned for an opening in the furs. 

She hummed from the back of her throat once more, and Roose felt himself roll his eyes once more as he reached out and attempted to slip the edge of one fur free. Just has he’d begun to pry and unwind the edge from her body her hand shot out quick as a snake and snatched it back, practically ripping the fur from his hand. 

His jaw opened in shook and he narrowed his eyes suspiciously as he studied her face, noting with amazement that the wench was still fast asleep even as she furiously guarded her furs. “Sansa, I’m cold. Give me some of the furs,” he snapped at her, his irritation clear now and all earlier thoughts of her potential use to him abandoned.

Until she moved once more, that is. As soon as he finished speaking, he watched as a playful little smile graced his wife’s face even as she continued to slumber on. Just as he began to ponder what kind of sadistic little woman smiled in her sleep when her husband complained he was cold, her body rolled closer and her little arm snaked out to wrap around his bare waste, pulling the pile of furs with it and capturing him in her little cocoon. 

He debated for a moment pulling a few the rest of the way around him and pushing her back before he decided that he felt quite comfortable with her soft little body snuggled up tight, her hand on his chest and her head against his shoulder. Sighing and deciding he could be forgiven for a moment of weakness after such a week, he wrapped his arm around his wife, pulled her up close, and drifted off to sleep.

~*~

When Sansa awoke she found her body wound up tight around who she could only pray was her husband, her leg thrown over his, her arm hugging his waist, and her head resting on his stomach. Forcing her body completely still, she kept her eyes squeezed shut and listened with all her might to her surroundings. As she willed her body to relax, she heard the man she was so wantonly intertwined with begin to read allowed from a letter as his long fingers combed through her hair.

Yes, she realized with a sigh as she felt the tension drain from her body and she relaxed back into a state near slumber once more. It was indeed her husband she was coiled around, and if his fingers in her hair were anything to go by, he was not at all displeased. As he continued to read and let her doze, her thoughts drifted in confusion to how, exactly, she’d even ended up in bed in the first place. When had he returned? Had they talked about anything? Her body tensed with a start as she blanched at the next thought. Had they… been intimate?

“Trust me, wife,” he drawled softly above her, an ironic lilt to his voice as his fingers continued to brush through her curls, lightly scratching her scalp. “If I’d bedded you, you would most assuredly be aware.”

Sansa’s cheeks flamed crimson, and the low chuckle rumbling out of the muscled abdomen she was resting on made a curious heat swoop down low in her belly. As her mind raced frantically for some response, and she realized with a mental roll of her eyes that of course he’d known she was awake the entire time, her husband continued on. “There’s time enough for that when you are awake, Sansa. But do not doubt, for I mean to claim my rights in the very near future.” His silky voice was doing strange things to her, causing butterflies to take flight in her belly, and with a pierce of alarm she realized that she still had no idea what exactly he meant by finding pleasure in the marital bed. “With that little thought, wife, I fear I must leave you and start my day in the small council. I shall see you for dinner with the King.”

As he slipped out from under her and the furs and moved away from the bed, Sansa pulled the covers of high over her head to hide her flaming cheeks. Little thought, indeed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third chapter in one day. Phew, I'm on a roll :) Parts of this scene are from the one-shot, though I've edited and reworked some of the goodness so that its more in line with characterization. Drop a comment, and I hope you enjoy!

Sansa dressed in one of her new gowns, a creation that she was quite proud of done in the Northern style with long bell sleeves, a grey gown in homage to House Stark with trimmings and lace in the exact pink of the Bolton sigil, complete with front lacings in the same color. Throwing the fur wrap over her shoulders, Sansa walked proudly with her guards to the tent where she was to dine with her husband, Robb and his wife, and the other lords and ladies of Robb’s court present at the war camp. 

Sansa’s heart started to pound as she entered the tent and felt Queen Talisa glaring daggers at her fine gown, and she frantically began to search for her husband in the room as she was escorted firmly to the high table. “Relax, my lady,” her guard said from above her shoulder, his words barely above a whisper and meant for her ears alone. “Lord Bolton will be along momentarily. Do not let the queen upset you; you do House Bolton proud.”

Tears pricked her eyes as she smiled gratefully up at the knight who had guarded her tent every night since she was first wed, and she blinked back tears and straightened her spine as she made her way to curtsey before the King and Queen. “Your grace, your grace, thank you for honoring us with your request for our presence this evening,” she intoned respectfully, keeping her head bowed slightly as was expected.

Robb’s laugh rumbled down from the table as he gestured for her to stand and join them and he gave a rueful smile and shake of his head, his curls tumbling around. “Come now, Sansa, you need not be so formal with your brother and goodsister. Isn’t that right, my Queen?”

Talisa’s smile was sickly sweet as she met Sansa’s gaze coldly and nodded in agreement. “Of course, my King,” she replied smoothly, her smile breaking off in an ugly bite as she eyed the fine lace before turning back to survey the gathering before her. 

“Sansa,” her mother gave a startled bleat next to Robb, eyeing her new gown with a frown before meeting her gaze with confusion while Sansa took her seat next to her. 

“Yes, Lady Stark?” Sansa replied coolly, eyes searching once more through the tent for a glimpse of her husband. Where was he? 

“Are these fabrics from Lord Bolton?” While the bewilderment was evident, it was the slight vein of displeasure that rung through most clearly, causing Sansa to narrow her eyes as she began to turn back to her mother.

“Yes, of course they are, mother,” she replied coldly, raising her eyebrow in disbelief as if it were obvious from whom they came. Sansa felt a wave of unease as her mother’s eyes narrowed and a strange glint entered, and nearly sighed with relief as she felt her husband slide into his seat next to her.

“Apologies, my lady,” his cold voice said softly, his face expressionless as she turned towards him to smile warmly. 

“None needed, my lord,” she replied, granting him a shy smile once more when his gaze sharpened towards her and he studied her face with a dip in his brow that was borderline suspicion.

He hummed in response as they were served their meal, and turned his attention entirely to his food and to Lord Umber next to him for the remainder of the evening. As several soldiers struck up a small band and began to pluck out a few songs, the Queen and her brother slipped out to turn about on the dance floor. With a wistful sigh, Sansa ignored the uncomfortable tension building between herself and her goodsister and instead focused on the happiness clearly bubbling up out of her brother as he spun his queen on the floor. A hand slipped into her lap, and when Sansa turned in question she found herself snared in the glittering gaze of her lord husband as his thumb began to trace lazy circles along the ridges of her palm.

“Shall we retire, my lady?” To the observer his voice retained all of the coolness and apathetic disinterest he was known for, but the heat glittering in his warm gray eyes sent Sansa’s heart racing for the hills. His question sent an odd wave of heat roll through her, and Sansa felt her chest, neck and cheeks flush as she gave him a small nod of agreement. As she pushed up with her legs to stand, the butterflies took flight once more beneath her breast, and she tightened her grip on her husband’s hand. 

The walk to their tent was over sooner than expected, and before Sansa could blink she found herself once again alone with her lord husband, standing in the center of their room as he built up the fire that had been smoldering. She blinked and granted him a shy smile as he turned back towards her, clasping her hands tightly to hide the tremor in her fingertips. His unreadable gaze bored into hers, and Sansa felt her cheeks begin to flush as she anxiously wracked her brain for what she should say, what she should do, what should come next. They were certainly on the cusp of something, but Sansa was far too naïve to say what, and with a twinge of annoyance lamented her mother for not speaking with her and giving her answers to her questions days ago. What was that look in his eyes? Why was he staring at her like that? As she bit her lip she noticed his nostrils flare as his eyes darkened to an even warmer steel. What on earth did that mean? 

Fumbling about, Sansa burst out the first coherent thought that entered her brain. “Should I summon the maids to help us dress for bed, my lord?” Very good Sansa, she praised herself. Her voice only barely wavered, and it was possible that in the light of the fire he couldn’t see how brightly her cheeks had flamed at the word bed. 

With a slight shake of his head and a glint in his eyes, her husband stalked the careful steps of a hunter around to behind her, trailing his fingertips up from the tops of her fingernails, over the sleeve of her forearm, past her elbow, around the bump of her shoulder, and up to the curve of her neck, soft skin peaking up from the edging of lace on her gown. As he slipped his fingers in under her hair to trace a heated trail over the back of her neck to the top of her laces, she heard him let out a hum of approval as an unbidden shudder rippled over her skin. “I believe tonight we can assist ourselves, my lady,” his soft voice feathering in between her hair to tease her ears, the silkiness sliding over her and slipping straight down to coil deep in her belly. “If it please you,” he murmured.

Sansa’s eyes had long since fluttered shut, her breath was coming short in her chest, and she felt she would die of anticipation as she nodded heavily in response. Her husband gently began to untie the laces pink of her dress. “I like your new gown, Sansa,” he murmured, lips pressing in to graze the hair covering her neck and sending ripples down her spine. His touches were delicate and hauntingly quick, flashes and trails of fingers, and Sansa found herself covered in bumps and the hairs raised on her skin as she ached for more. More of what, exactly she wasn’t precisely sure, but she had the distinct impression it was only her husband who could provide.

“Th-th-thank you, my lord,” she whispered breathlessly, her heart thudding painfully in her chest, so loud she was certain he could hear it. Sansa sucked in a sharp breath when she felt the final laces give way, and a shudder rolled through her shoulders as her lord husband gently pushed the gown over her shoulders, down her arms and waist, and down her legs to gather in a pile lace and furs around her feet. 

She felt her husband sweep his nose through the hair at the back of her neck, and when she felt his soft lips press a gentle kiss to the sensitive skin on the nape of her neck, Sansa couldn’t contain her gasp and keening moan. 

Roose growled in response, a fierce wave of arousal and possessiveness for his lady wife dominating his thoughts as he felt her shiver and heard her sigh at his touch. And when she moaned as he pressed his lips once more to the spot at the back of her neck, Roose nearly had to force himself not to spill his seed right there. 

“Turn,” he whispered into the shell of her ear, letting the tip of his tongue slip out to trace that delicate arch. He was rewarded with another gasp that ended on a fluttering sigh, and his wife turned slowly before him. 

Roose felt his carefully masked face go slack at the stretch of naked skin before him. His lady wife, dressed in naught but a white silk shift so thin he could see the pink of her areolas peaking out to tease him, was, quite simply, breathtaking. Her auburn curls danced and glittered in the light, to the point where he was sure they held their own flame and lit the room all on their own. Her porcelain skin shown, twinkling in the firelight, and the hint of lavender washed up to tickle his nose. The graceful arches and curves of her body had him trying to wet his mouth, which had gone suddenly dry. And, as his eyes travelled up to see the plump bottom lip Sansa had sunk her teeth into in her nervousness, Roose very nearly forgot to even breathe.

Sucking in a shaky breath and grasping for any straw left of control, Roose raised his eyebrow in blatant challenge to the siren before him. Her brow fluttered in confusion for only a moment until he held his arms out at his sides, and then she grinned shyly and fluttered her eyelashes, blushing crimson as she stepped closer to trail her fingertips over his doublet. 

Sansa traced over her new husband’s broad chest, swooping across the toned muscles fluttering even over the layers of fabric between them. She brought her hands to the buttons of his doublet, deftly undoing them one by one, as she tried to steady her shaking hands. She blinked rapidly and forced a full breath as the last button popped free, until she brought her hands up to carefully push the doublet off from her husband’s broad shoulders, letting it drop to pool with her dress at their feet. 

Without the extra layer, Sansa could see through the fine linen of his shirt that her husband’s lean body was exceptionally crafted, muscle after muscle rippling over his frame, and with a sigh of delight she traced her eyes over his chest and reflected on the feel of those muscles beneath her when she awoke this morning, until her eyes drifted down to the marked bulge jutting out of his breeches.

Sansa’s cheeks flamed as she felt a curious dampness start to wet the tops of her thighs, and she felt her womanhood clinch in unbidden, causing her to sharply suck in her breath. Her eyes fluttered shut before she felt a long finger tuck under her chin, and then she found herself staring into her husband’s eyes, eyes which had darkened to a shade of gray so filled with heat that had her pulse hammering away in her chest so loud she was sure he heard her.

After a searching look and a curt nod, Sansa watched his face lower, and her eyes fluttered back shut as she felt his lips capture her own. Her husband’s kiss now was nothing like the peck from their wedding, and Sansa felt her head start to spin when his soft lips slid and pressed and pulled and pushed over her own. His kiss was dominating in its lightness, teasing in pressure, and before long Sansa was gasping against him for air and twining her fingers at the nape of his neck through his thinning hair. Her lord husband growled, seizing the victory, and with a moan Sansa felt his tongue push into her mouth.

Whatever thoughts of shyness she’d entertained flew quickly out of the tent as she felt him taste and plunder and tease her mouth, his tongue guiding hers in a dance that had her mewling and pulling and pressing until she realized they were flush against one another, a tangle of limbs as their bodies slid together in a frenzy. Pulling her head back with a cry and a gasp for air, Sansa hazily noted with satisfaction that her husband seemed just as lost in sensation and lust as she was. Suddenly she blanced, the teachings of her Septa coming back to haunt her as she realized with alarm that perhaps she was not supposed to behave so wantonly, no better than a common whore.

Until she saw his lips curl up into a predatory smile, one that sent a wave of delicious heat all the way down to curl her toes, and Sansa realized with a small little smile of her own that perhaps these were the pleasures her husband had referred to. She gave a startled cry of delight as suddenly her husband scooped her up into his strong arms and carried her over to their bed of furs. He growled and nipped playfully at her neck, and Sansa felt the first giggle she’d had in years bubble out of her chest. Leaning back to recline down beside her, her husband’s eyes glimmered as he saw the unfettered smile spreading over his wife’s beautiful face. 

Gods, his wife was now hungrily pulling him down overtop her for another kiss, and he growled with desire as he slipped his palm down to the soft flesh of her thigh, trailing up to grasp the hem of silk. She sighed in pleasure as he pulled the garment up and over her lovely shoulders, a sigh ending on a drawn out moan as he bent his head to kiss the beautiful nipples the offending garment had shielded from him.

“Beautiful,” he whispered into her chest as he laved and suckled and nipped like a man starved at the teats of his wife. She was writhing beneath him, sliding her thighs together, desperate for release, a release, he realized with another growl, he was most assuredly desperate to give her. 

Sitting up to marvel at the wanton mess that had become of his wife, Roose roughly yanked his linen shirt up over his head. Intending to return and slowly pleasure his wife, he was startled when her soft hands suddenly slipped over the contours of his abdomen, teasing the muscles as she slid up to tangle her graceful fingers in the hairs of his chest. With a groan, Roose gave up any sense of control, and hastily unlaced his breeches, shifting his hips to push them off and toss them away from the furs. 

Sansa gasped at the sight of her husband, naked before her. His chest was magnificent roll after roll of tightly sprung muscle, smattered with coarse hairs that she’d missed this morning. And when her eyes trailed down to the thickness hung between his thighs, she nearly swooned on the spot. Her eyes widened, partly in awe, partly in fear, at the enormity of the man before her. He was thick, and long, and swollen, with a drop oozing out of the tip. Unbidden, and of its own accord, Sansa saw her hand reach forward, fingertip touching that drop of liquid, smoothing it over the tip.

She watched her husband’s entire body shudder, his eyes briefly closing before opening with a raging fire of desire, and with alarm she quickly raised both hands to press against his shoulders as he hovered over her, fear flashing unbidden in her eyes. 

He hummed a soothing response as his strong hand slipped between her thighs, opening her as he settled himself between them, and Sansa flushed with alarm as that hand slid closer and closer to where she was damp and wanton, wet and waiting, for him.

As her husband’s hand slipped between her curls to coat his fingers in the wetness now nearly dripping between her thighs, Sansa arched her back on a keening moan. Her husband growled and panted in response, hovering over her as his graceful fingers began to play between her folds, until they swept over that bundle of nerves that had her nearly bolting up in pleasure off the pile of furs. Her husband captured her loud moan of pleasure with a kiss before settling himself firmly between her thighs, rubbing the tip of himself through her slickness as he brought her legs to wrap around his waist. 

Sansa panted as her eyes stared with fear into his, and he held himself steady at her entrance as he peppered her face with soft, reassuring kisses. Sighing in relaxation, Sansa pushed her palms up over her husband’s strong forearms, until she wrapped them around his neck and held him close above her. 

“Now, my lord,” she whispered softly, voice breaking on a cry as in one smooth stroke he pushed into her opening, and fully claimed her as his own.

Roose tensed within her, eyes rolling at the tight sheath in which he found himself, and it was all he could do not to slam into his wife until he was spent. But she was tense as a bow around him, and he brought his lips down to kiss away the tears starting to slide down her cheeks. He continued his kisses, slowly making his way down her cheek, to the shell of her ear, past to the soft skin of her neck, and only once she sighed and shifted against him did he start to move.

His thrusts were slow, controlled, and shallow, and Sansa found herself desperate for something, pleasure building and tightening in her belly. Without a thought, she shifted and writhed beneath him, begging him with her body until finally she moaned into his ear, her voice tight with need. “Please, my lord.”

Roose didn’t dare disappoint his lady, and with a groan he began to thrust in earnest, picking up his pace and loosening his control until she was crying with pleasure beneath him and he was slamming his hips into hers, holding her tight. Just as he was near his own release he felt her walls clamp down and clench around him, squeezing him nearly to the point of pain as his lady wife shuddered and came apart in his arms. She was screaming, yelling his name like a prayer as the world shattered around her, and with one strong thrust he was over the cliff, spilling his seed and moaning her name in response into her hair.

Roose collapsed against his lady wife, gathering her to his side as he lay on his back and slowed his breathing. Stretching like a cat, she hummed contentedly and threw her leg over his broad thigh, rounding her body around him as he reached down to pull up the furs. 

“That was… Oh, that was… Wonderful, my lord,” she said with awe, and Roose had to stifle a chuckle. 

“I’m very glad you are… pleased, my lady,” he said quietly with amusement, smiling to himself as he pressed his cheek against her hair.

“Are you… I mean, was it… Are you pleased, Roose?” She whispered timidly to his chest, and this time Roose let his chuckle light up the room. 

Though he’d given her leave with his given name it still sent a strange feeling coursing through him as she used it unbidden, and he smiled a predatory smile as he recalled her quite loudly screaming it only moments earlier. “I am, Sansa. And, as I’m sure most of the camp is aware, I think I can safely assume you are pleased, as well?” He tilted his head down to study her with amusement, smirking as he saw his wife raise her head to his and flush prettily to her toes. 

“Yes, Roose,” she whispered with a shy smile, before tucking her head into the curve of his shoulder. “I take it those were the… pleasures, you had mentioned previously?”

He quirked a brow at the smug look on his lady wife’s face, and, though he would deny it to the grave, Roose found himself attempting to flirt with his beautiful young wife. “Why, Sansa,” he said softly, rotating slightly and pushing her over so he could curl up around her body and pull her in close, her back flush against his chest. “That was merely a preview of those pleasures.” And with a growl and a knowing smirk, Roose felt his wife shudder in his arms as she sucked in a breath and smiled. 

And as his young wife drifted off to sleep in his arms, Roose couldn’t help the smirk of pride spreading over his face. While he was sure he didn’t deserve it, while he knew without a doubt his black soul hadn’t earned it, he found himself most assuredly blessed all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was the smut? Worth the build up? I've got a good plot for the future but want to weave in quite a bit of yumminess. Sound good?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO HONORED by the support and comments this story is generating so far. I hope I am able to keep it up and do this justice.
> 
> A brief break from smut to work in some plot (and plotting!). Let me know your thoughts. Enjoy! :)

_Sansa was running, sprinting for her life through the halls of the Red Keep in King’s Landing. Bursting into the throne room, she found herself sprinting up to the feet of King Joffrey where he reclined lazily across the Iron Throne._

_“Please, Your Grace, I beg you have mercy!”_

_Joffrey smiled the sinister smile of a snake as he shook his head and cackled with glee, the clap of his hands so strong it caused his golden crown to rattle atop his head. “Why, my love, I have! Don’t you see? I’ve waited until you were here so you could see it for yourself and believe! Believe your one true love, your good King Joffrey, has finally bled the traitorous blood from the Starks!”_

_The fear choking her to the point of gasping and wheezing for breath, Sansa turned on her heel as he threw his arms wide. There, behind her, where moments ago had been nothing, she found her brother and her mother, shackled and chains, a series of cuts battering their bodies as the red blood dripped down to soak stone floor at their feet._

_Their eyes were wide and unseeing, and as she opened her mouth to speak, to beg mercy, she found herself choking on the words, until no more than a gurgle of blood bubbled up from her own throat, filling her mouth and dripping down to stain the front of her gown. As she fell to her knees, choking on her own blood, she watched as Ser Ilyn Payne raised Ice, swinging high as he prepared to claim the heads of her mother and brother._

_She watched the glint of the steel as it arched high in the air, reflecting off the sunlight, before it swung down in one smooth stroke to…_

“Sansa!” Her husband’s cold voice was urgent, his hand gripping hard on the top of her arm, and with a wrenching sob she shot upright in their bed, eyes wide and unseeing as she spun her head rapidly looking for her mother, her brother, for Joffrey…

“Sansa,” his voice was slower this time, calmer, and the hand slipped down her arm to carefully grasp her own, his thumb starting slow arcs across her knuckles as he sat up next to her, swinging his leg wide as he shuffled to sit back behind her against the headboard. He pulled her back against his chest, wrapping both strong arms around her, holding on to her hand as he pulled her close and rocked her like a newborn babe. “Hush now, Sansa, it was a dream.” He whispered the soothing words over and over into the top of her hair, holding her close and rocking her softly, until the sobs began to slow and just a few errant tears remained.

As Sansa fought to tame her breathing and her racing heart, Roose lightly pushed one finger under the bottom of her chin, tipping her face up to meet his eyes in the gray morning light filtering into their tent. “Tell me,” he said softly, the crinkle in his eyes not unkind as he watched her blink up at him while her mouth turned down in a frown, trying to keep the tears at bay.

Sansa tucked her head back against his chest, and in short broken sentences, recapped her dream. He was silent a long moment, one thumb still tracing along the back of her palm while the other stroked through her long auburn curls along her spine. As he cleared his throat, Sansa felt she could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind, and a sliver of unease crept through her.

“Which part, exactly, upset you, Sansa?”

She bit her lip and frowned in confusion, shifting in his arms slightly as she considered his question. “My lord?”

He sighed as if he were dealing with a slow pupil, and she narrowed her eyes as she practically felt him rolling his eyes. “Did it upset you that your mother and brother were killed, or did it upset you that it was Joffrey who killed them?” His voice was deceptively calm, increasingly cold, and try as she might she could not detect what the correct answer to his question would be. 

“I-“ as she pondered it, it brought her up short. Of course she was upset her mother and brother were killed in her dream, wasn’t she? “Well, I-“ But then again, her fear started as soon as she burst into the throne room and was face to face with Joffrey. “I mean-“ But this was her _mother and brother_ , how could she not feel saddened and terrified by their murders. 

She sighed heavily, relaxing more fully and realizing that the longer she had deliberated, the stiffer his hold had grown. He most certainly was anxious about her answer, despite the coolness with which he’d given the words, and that brought about a fresh wave of unease. Why would it matter? “It matters not, my lord. It was just a dream,” she replied firmly, willing him to ignore the waver of the statement.

“Yes, Sansa,” he replied icily, “it was just a dream.” A fresh wave of discomfort rolled through her shoulders at the feeling that something was not quite right, not quite matching up, between his words and his tone.

~*~

Once she’d dressed in a second new gown, this one blood red with gray and white edgings and lacings, she picked up the History of House Bolton and settled into her favorite spot in her husband’s chair next to the fire. Just as she read of the first alignment between House Stark and House Bolton, a guard called from beyond the tent flap. “Lady Stark to see you, Lady Bolton.”

Sansa sighed, thoughts of her dream and her odd discussion with her husband still fresh on her mind as she called for her to be allowed to enter. Just as she schooled her mask of courtly courtesy firmly into place, the expression in her mother’s eyes brought her up short. “Mother?” She was pale, her eyes slightly wider with fear, her mouth pressed into a grim line.

“Sansa. Would you join me for a walk? There’s something I must discuss with you.” Her tone was frantic, and, forgetting for the moment all of the previous tension between them, Sansa hurried to her side and quickly wrapped her mother’s arm through her own. 

“Certainly, mother.” Making their way out of the tent, they began to stroll casually through the bustling war camp, Sansa following her mother’s lead. Her guards, including the new friend she’d discovered the previous evening, followed discreetly behind them, close enough to provide protection in an instant, but far enough to give them space. 

Her mother was restless, the hand on her arm fidgeting, and Sansa studied her with a look of concern. “Mother? What is the matter?”

Lady Stark sighed, lips pressing and releasing before she finally blurted out the words. “Sansa, it is time now. I need your help.”

Of all the things she may have been expecting, this brought her up short. “Mother?”

“Queen Talisa is with child, though it is very early and the knowledge is not yet known, even to the members of the council,” she said quietly, her hushed tone and sharp glance telling her that it was clear she wished to keep it that way.

“That is wonderful,” Sansa said hollowly, mind racing as she tried to understand why this would affect her and why her mother would be so concerned.

“Is it?” Lady Stark’s cutting tone did nothing to decrease Sansa’s discomfort, and she wondered if perhaps her dream this morning were some form of omen for how her day was going to go.

“Of course. Why would it not be?”

Lady Stark watched her shrewdly, eyes narrowing like a hawk’s as they darted all over her face. Sansa started to squirm under her stare, and tried to resist before finally blurting out in impatience, “mother, what is going on?”

The narrowed eyes never relaxed as she spoke her next words in a measured tone. “Sansa, I do not trust your husband. I fear he would be displeased by the babe.”

Sansa swallowed heavily, reflecting once more on their exchange only a few hours before. “I am not privy to my husband’s feelings or concerns, mother,” she said quietly, praying that their words were swallowed hole by the bustle of the camp around them. She did not want to consider what her husband may do if he construed their conversation as conspiring against him, thoughts of the torture she felt at Joffrey’s hands still fresh on her mind and body.

“Sansa, there are ways that a wife can influence her husband, if she knows how to please him,” her mother began. “And in order to hear of his plans, Sansa, and to know if my distrust is founded, I very much need you to please him.” The cold tone and the colder words had bile rising up in the back of her throat, and her heart raced as she was faced with yet another memory of King’s Landing, when Cersei alluded to the weapon a woman held between her legs. 

Swallowing down the nausea as her stomach continued to roil, Sansa started to interrupt “mother-“

“Sansa,” she hissed, fingers clawing painfully into her forearm. “Why do you think I pushed for you to be wed to Lord Bolton in the first place?” 

Sansa blanched and she brought her gaze up in horror to meet her mother’s eyes. “You mean-“

“Yes,” she cut in sharply, darting a nervous glance towards her guards who had begun to shift closer seeing Sansa’s pale face. “I need to know who he talks to, who he writes to, and what his plans are, daughter. You need to tell me. You need to serve the realm.”

And with that, the fingernails released, and her mother was gone, gliding back through the camp. With a start Sansa realized she had stopped right before Robb’s war tent, and in a flurry of skirts she turned and bolted back towards her own.

~*~

Roose’s eyes narrowed from the corner of the tent as he saw through the crack where her mother was whispering furiously, digging into her arm and causing his wife to pale to the point of fainting. 

This was expected, but still unwelcome. He had begun to grow beyond his initial apathy towards his wife, and had hoped the pleasure they had found in their marital bed may sway her to his side. After this morning’s nightmare and now this meeting with her mother, he wondered, when push came to shove, where her loyalties may truly lie.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! :D
> 
> This chapter is specifically thanks to iheartloki and Jennilynn411, who inspired the direction this story is taking. 
> 
> You all are the best!! Thank you for the comments, kudos, kind words and encouragement. I know this story is not everyone's cup of tea, but I firmly believe that part of the joy in fan fiction is playing with plot, pairings, and characterization as one sees fit. :) Thank you for taking this journey with me and sticking with me through the 8th chapter!

Roose stormed towards his tent late that evening in a furious temper, though his outward demeanor of course didn’t show it. His cold mask in place, only his eyes gave away his blazing fury. _That damned iron born whelp. He should never have been allowed to lead an envoy in the first place._

Once again, an error in judgment and misplaced trust by his King led to a disastrous outcome. Truly, he should cease to be surprised, and begin to just plan for that outcome. 

The Greyjoy rebelled, like they always do. But instead of traipsing about the coast raiding and plundering the villages, this particular Greyjoy chose to march his little salt sword inward and take over Winterfell. The home of the King in the North.

How… _embarrassing._ A King without a castle. A Lord of no manor. It was downright shameful. 

Did the little wolf King listen when Roose advised he _honor_ his commitment to Lord Walder Frey and his daughters? No. Did the little wolf King listen when Roose advised him against sending the son of a traitor to barter with his father? No. Were these small things too much to ask? Most assuredly, no, they were not. 

Roose sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward as he walked into his tent. He was getting to old for boys who played King.

As his eyes adjusted to the dimmer lighting he cut his gaze to find his lady wife, wrapped in every damned fur he owned, sprawled in his favorite chair, just about nearly finished with the History of House Bolton, by the looks of it. He felt his cold mouth twitch in spite of itself when his ears were greeted with the sound of a soft snore. Until he recalled that… _unfortunate_ encounter he witnessed earlier between his lady and her mother. That had his mouth pressing into a firm frown.

He studied her with mounting suspicion as he paced through the tent towards his desk, tossing his doublet and rolling up the sleeves of his linen shirt as he went. What to do? He’d been pondering the little paths before him all evening as he listened to the temper tantrum of his King, and still hadn’t quite decided which course would suit his purposes best.

He could of course do nothing; pretend he never saw the incident and wait to see if she came to him with its purpose. He could probe; ask her gently, analyze her responses; engage in a game of cat and mouse. He could ask her outright; demand that she keep no secrets from her husband, though this was likely to engender no long lasting loyalties. He could beat it out of her; but that was a nasty business and the thought of adding one more scar to that lovely body had him screwing his mouth in disgust. And that brought him right back around to the beginning, where he could do nothing, and wait and see. 

A soft sigh from his chair broke his musings, and he turned sharply to see Sansa’s cheeks flushed and her breathing growing increasingly heavy. Sighing, he strode towards the chair with the intent on rousing her from yet another night terror. Until her next sigh trailed off into a moan. A decidedly _sensual_ one, at that. 

He could still rouse her, of course. He should, shouldn’t he? That would be the honorable thing to do.

With a wickedly sly smile, he took a step backwards and leaned his hips back to rest against his deck. Since when was he known for his honor?

Another delicious little moan slipped out of his wife’s lips, and he felt himself hardening at all the things he wanted to do with that plump little mouth. Or to it, for that matter. 

Another sigh and she had him beginning to squirm restlessly. Just what was she dreaming about? 

“Sandor,” she whispered, her breath caressing each syllable like a lover. Roose felt himself blanch and his smile dropped into a severe frown as he stalked with purpose over to rouse his wife. 

~*~

_She was laid out bare on a bed of furs, her long auburn curls the only covering to drape over her pebbled pink nipples. A thousand butterflies took flight overhead, their wings blocking out the sun in the sky, and as they flitted about to and fro the brush of their wings caused delicious tingles to race up and over her heated flesh._

_A man approached her from a distance, and as he stood overtop her with the sun to his back she had yet to make out his form. Meanwhile, the butterflies kept flitting, dancing to and fro, and a delicious heat began to pool near her center. Licks of desire whipped hot at her center, and she arched her back as white hot pleasure caused wetness begin to drip down and dampen the furs beneath her. Just then, as the wetness started to flow, the sun dipped in the sky and the man was known._

_“Sandor,” she breathed, eyes fluttering shut as the butterflies skated once more across her skin._

_Coldness descended, and when she opened her eyes once more, Sandor was gone and she was alone. The butterflies raised her in the air, thousands upon thousands carrying her, floating her along until she was laid to rest once more on the pillows of a cloud._

_“Naughty girl, dressing in naught but furs,” a voice whispered, the deep baritone shooting straight to her pulsing core. She knew that voice, though she could not place it. Who did it belong to?_

_Fingers began to crawl up her legs, chasing away the butterflies and leaving white hot flames of heat in their wake. As they circled up to the inner flesh of her thighs, stroking ever closer towards where she was desperate for friction, Sansa let her legs fall open wide and she bucked her hips._

_A growl, before she felt the soft press of lips into the side of her neck just below her ear, followed by the teasing scrape of teeth. She whined, bucking once more as the fingers began to stroke slowly through her curls, teasing her nether lips, gathering up the liquid, but never pressing further, never pushing in. She bucked again with a strained cry, and the low chuckle she received in response had her panting for air, her chest heaving high as she fought for control. “We’ll see if you ever moan another man’s name by the time I’m done with you, wife,” the silky voice murmured, and the shiver that rolled through her flesh and left bumps in its wake had him chuckling once more before scraping his teeth and leaving a nip on the lobe of her ear._

_The tip of one finger slipped down to stroke a long swipe through her folds, and a growl echoed when it came away coated and slick. Suddenly, the pad of one thumb pushed through to circle around the nub where she ached the most, and with a scream of pleasure Sansa opened her eyes._

The sight of her husband, his hand between her legs and his body hovering to the side of hers while he licked and nipped and teased her neck, had her heart racing faster than a direwolf through her breast. “Roose? Ahhh-“ Confusion quickly bent to pleasure when the thumb picked up its pace down below. 

“I see you remember my name, my lady. See that you do not forget it again.” His growl sent a chill of unease, but it soon gave way to the pleasure he was wreaking with his hands and his lips and his tongue all over her most sensitive places.

“My—ah” one long finger began to tease her core. “My lord?”

“What were you dreaming of, Sansa?” His tone was playful, casual almost, but the tension at her side told her the question was quite important.

“I—ohhh, yes, right there please.” Her back was arching, her breathing heavy, and her head started to spin as she neared her peak.

“Answer the question, my lady.”

His thumb was circling faster, and he dipped his head to nip the underside of her breast. “The—ahhh, the question?”

His thumb stopped, lips rising, and Sansa whined in protest as her eyes popped open with alarm. “Roose!”

His lips twitched with amusement before he turned his face down sternly. “Answers for touches, my dear.”

She looked so furious he had to bite back a full smile.

“What was the question.” Her impatience and huff of annoyance had him slowly starting to tease through her curls once more.

“What were you dreaming, Sansa?”

Her brow furrowed with confusion before her eyes lit in recognition. “Oh! I was lying on a pile of furs, and-“ she blushed crimson before forcing herself to continue when the hand started to pull away again “-and I was naked and there were butterflies and then woke up.”

His scowl and the removal of those delicious fingers had her biting her lip and fuming in protest as her peak slipped away once more. “Tell me the part you left out, Sansa.”

She huffed before spitting out the rest, her throat closing up tight with the need arcing through her for _more._ “The butterflies were—arousing me, and someone was watching and when I looked up-“ she swallowed, blushing profously and averting her eyes, “it was S-Sandor Clegane and then he was gone.” 

She prayed to the old gods and new that the bed would just swallow her whole before her husband beat her senseless for her risqué dream. As her eyes started to well with tears, she was startled when his fingers started to part her curls once more while his lips came down to kiss lightly next to the corner of her eye. “I will not punish you for honesty, Sansa,” he said seriously, causing her to flit her gaze up to meet his in the dying firelight. The heat in his eyes that flared just as his finger dipped in to swirl in her heated core had her eyes rolling back as she moaned her pleasure. “But I am going to remind you of who it is you desire in your bed.” 

As a second finger pushed into her wetness his thumb rediscovered that taut little nub of pleasure, and she was quickly writhing and crying out with abandon, her back arching, her toes curling while she road those delicious fingers. 

“Who gives you your pleasure, Sansa?” His voice was dangerously soft, roughened with a growl. 

A third finger pushed in to join the others and had her screaming out and thrusting her hips with need, so so close to that elusive pleasure she’d been chasing all evening.

“Sansa?”

“Y-y-ahhh, you, my lo—oh!” And then she was screaming, flying through the night and shattering into a million pieces, her husbands name echoing out of their tent and into the starry sky. 

Roose shed his breeches quickly, not bothering to pull of his shirt as he spread his wife’s legs while she floated along the clouds and thrust into her hard and quick with a snap of his hips, sheathing himself to the hilt. He thrust fast and furiously, gripping her legs behind her knees and bringing them up to fold over his shoulders, and as she started to meet him buck for buck he reached down to circle his thumb once more over that sensitive little bundle of flesh between her thighs. 

“Come for me, wife,” he groaned between them, breaths mingling as they chased their pleasure, coming together and parting in a rush as she started to quiver and shake. And then she was, quivering and clenching and clamping down around him so hard he heard himself groan his name while he spilled his seed deep inside her.

He collapsed down next to her, pulling her close as he panted to catch his breath. With a little chuckle she scooted up close, throwing her arm over his waist and her leg over one corded thigh. “You know, I can’t help my dreams, my lord,” she mused sleepily, a smile in her voice and in her eyes while she tucked her head into his neck. 

He grunted, and she heard the amused resignation in his response, “I suppose not, Sansa.” He paused a moment, and as she drifted off to sleep his last words lit a light in her heart that had long since been dimmed. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t try to steer you in the right direction.” 

Roose listened to the slow rise and fall of his wife’s breathing as she drifted off to sleep curled around him like a cat. A slow wolfish smile spread across his face as he curled his fingers through her hair. Perhaps there was another way to pull the information about her mother from her, after all.


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa stretched lazily, turning over and pulling the furs up over her eyes to block out the early dawn light and the sound of the birds chirping outside the tent. A soft chuckle greeted her ears, and she smiled into the pillow as she inhaled her husband’s clean, woodsy scent on the linens. “Off to save the realm, my lord?” She whispered with a giggle, not bothering to lift the furs.

A snort sounded at that, and she heard boots pad across the floor as he came to stand next to her hip, she estimated. “I suppose so, my lady,” he said drily, an air of annoyance already tainting his tone. She felt his presence there a moment more before she heard him striding softly back out to exit their tent.

“Not going to bid your wife good morning with a kiss before you leave, my lord?” She teased him, giggles bubbling her voice playfully as her cheeks blushed pink, not that he could see. 

She heard the steps pause, and before she could blink she felt her warm cocoon being stripped away as he hauled the furs off of her naked, and now shivering, body and dropped them over the chair. Sansa shrieked and whipped around with a laugh, throwing her arm over her breast, but before she could reach back to grab hold he was on top of her, draped across her back and smothering her gently into the pillow as she giggled further. 

“My lord, this is most improper,” she huffed between laughs, eyes twinkling as she raised her head to peak at him over her shoulder, shaking her curls out of the way.

Though his face was as impassive as ever, she watched as his eyes twinkled with amusement, and he raised a brow wryly as she smiled fully at him, Tully eyes sparkling into his. “I thought you requested a kiss, my lady,” his soft voice danced down her spine leaving tingles in its wake as he leaned closer, pressing her further into the linens as his soft voice brushed against her ear. “You did not specify where.”

Just as she opened her mouth to summon a response, she felt feather light kisses begin to graze the soft skin of her shoulder, barely enough pressure to leave more than a hint in its wake. Sansa sighed as the kissed trailed all the way down to the dip in her spine, until they slowly began the ascent back up her back. Just as he reached her other shoulder and pressed a firmer kiss to the side of her neck, Sansa began to moan. As his teeth grazed the shell of her ear, he whispered her a promise. “One morning, Sansa, I’m going to grab your thigh, just so,” his smooth hand slipped between them to close around her thigh, pulling it up and spreading her legs wide beneath him. “And I’m going to press you into our bed of furs, just so,” he settled more firmly atop her, his weight just enough to make her feel trapped but not enough to stifle her breathing as she started to pant. 

He was silent for so long she shifted in impatience, noting the growing wetness between her wide open thighs. “Y-yes, my lord?” She whispered breathlessly, smiling as she heard him growl with pleasure at her acquiescence and willingness to play along. 

The words were so soft she should have strained to hear them, and yet she found the haunted her the rest of the morning, bouncing round and round in their tent until she nearly swooned from the deafening sound of them in her ears. “And I’m going to thrust in between your thighs, pounding into you and coating myself in your wetness until your screaming my name so loud Tywin Lannister himself will know when you’ve found your release.”

Sansa’s loud moan trailed off in a whine as he suddenly left her back, pulling away and then tossing the furs overtop her once more. “Good morning, my lady,” his deep voice rumbled with amusement as he slipped from their tent and left her in a wanton mess crumpled on their bed. 

~*~

Later that afternoon, Sansa finally shut the History of House Bolton, strolling towards Roose’ desk to drop it with a resounding thunk right on top. She smiled proudly as she trailed her fingertip over the flayed man outlining the front cover, pleased she was able to finish it so quickly and pleased she now was in fact far more knowledgeable on the history of her new house. She pursed her lips as she eyed the neat little stack of books on the little corner of his desk Roose had left for her, debating whether she should dive into the next or give her mind some rest prior to dining with the King and Queen in a few hours.

As she picked up the next volume, a History of Ladies Fashions, a little slip of parchment fluttered out from where it had been tucked in the cover and drifted to the floor. A small smile spread over her face as she marveled that her husband had left her a note in the book. Perhaps this was a test to see if she actually read them? And perhaps in what order? Not bothering to consider whether or not the letter was actually meant for her at all, Sansa flattened the parchment and began to read.

_LB,_

_We need your final decision. The hour of the wolf draws near. Do not delay._

_LF_

Her stomach flipped uncomfortably as a sense of cold spread through her while she read the missive once more. While it was clearly in code, the message appeared to be surprisingly obvious, if she was not mistaken.

LB… Surely, that must be Lord Bolton. ‘We need your final decision.’ So he was clearly in communication with someone outside of Robb’s camp, otherwise why send this missive to begin with? 

‘The hour of the wolf draws near.’ Swallowing heavily, she had to suppress a shudder of fear as it rolled heavily over her thin shoulders. While the possibilities were endless, it was more than apparent that the outcome was in no way good, for her or for her family.

LF… Well, if LB was Lord Bolton, then that would make—Sansa gasped, her eyes widening as her thoughts swirled to the marriage contract her brother had broken with none other than Lord Walder Frey. With a sinking heart, Sansa realized her mother’s fears were actually completely founded, and with one flick of her wrist and a drop of the letter she could have her husband tried for treason. 

When was this missive delivered? Had her husband actually responded? What had he decided? 

The questions circled round and round in her mind as she collapsed into the chair next to the fire in a huff, still clutching the missive between her fingers, until one pushed out all others and screamed out demanding answering.

What was she going to do?

~*~

“My lady, I am prepared to escort you now to dine with the King. Lord Bolton will join you directly from the small council.” Half an hour later Sansa found herself dressed and ushered across the camp, her stomach twisting and turning at the thought of not only facing Roose, but also of facing her mother. Lady Catelyn would know in an instant that Sansa kept a secret, and it would not be long before her mother came calling and Sansa would have to decide.

Did she align with her current house, or her former? Did she betray her husband, or her mother? With whom did her loyalties lie? And what would be the price?

She found herself seated at the end of the long table between her lord husband and the Greatjon, who was already heavily into his cups. Glancing at how far away they presently were from her mother and brother, she could not help but huff at the slight. As the chief strategist in Robb’s army, Roose should have been seated no more than a few seats away, if that. As her eyes scanned once more, she met the narrowed gaze of the Queen, smiling slyly as she raised her brow and tilted her head in triumph. 

Ah. So it was not entirely Roose who was to feel slighted. More importantly, it was her.

As her husband placed several meats on her plate, her favorites, Sansa noted with a small smile, she couldn’t quite keep the annoyance from her face. “Something displeases you, my lady?” He murmured softly, his eyes continuing their watchful scan on the army dining in front. 

Sansa could not manage more than a noncommittal agreement as her thoughts turned once more to her husband’s deception while she passed the Greatjon the platter. She began to pick at her plate, any appetite long since leaving her as the nausea once again took hold, beating a tempest in her belly while butterflies took flight in her breast. 

She had to confront him before she took any further actions, she’d decided. What if he’d reported the letter directly to Robb in the first place? Then, if she’d accused him of treason, it would all be for naught, and there would most certainly be severe repercussions if she acted thusly. 

But when to act? Should she wait a few days, to see how things played out? Did she even have the time? Perhaps she should-

A hand sliding amongst her skirts had her jerked from her thoughts with alarm, and she looked down quickly to see her husband’s hand burying itself in her lap and suddenly brushing against her smooth skin.

What on earth? She choked back her alarm as his fingers began to slide along her thigh, and as she turned her startled gaze towards his while her cheeks began to flame, she noticed that although his mask was firmly in place, his eyes were bright and warm with heat, and he watched her the way a hawk marked its prey. 

“Something the matter, my lady?”

“Why y- No! No, my lord.” Just as she’d begun to affirm, he’d playfully pinched her thigh, cutting her off as she yelped and then quickly rushed to appease him. 

“You have not eaten, my lady. Do you have something on your mind?”

Sansa’s glance flitted quickly towards the Greatjon, who by now was deep in conversation with his son about who was more formidable in battle and who would now be occupied for the greater part of the remaining evening. Scanning the room, she noted that no one at all was even looking their direction, and she couldn’t catch the sigh that slipped from her lips when her husband began to stroke along her thigh once more. Until one thought had her puzzling her brow and turning to find his face far to close as he leaned into her, his lips on her ear disguised as a whisper but truly a caress, nipping her lobe before sliding back a fraction to stare into her eyes.

“I had not realized there was a slit in my skirt, my lord,” she whispered, leaning towards him in spite of herself as she felt herself compelled and pulled in by those steel gray eyes. 

“How fortunate for me that I had,” he whispered, before leaning back a fraction further, his brow quirking when she followed him once more. 

Sansa’s nostrils flared as his fingers began to play with the lace along her smallclothes, and it was all she could do to bite back a whimper when one long swipe danced along the seam, pressing it in close and gathering the slickness, sending a most delicious tingle pooling low in her belly. 

As her eyes swept back up to his she noted that he was studying her intensely, his heated gaze no longer solely filled with lust, but also with the hint of a question. She shifted uneasily, causing his fingers to brush firmer against the lace as she bit back a moan in response. She reached out, intending to grip the rail of the chair but missing entirely and landing firmly on his thigh, her nails digging in just left of the noticeable budge in his breeches. 

The mask slipped then as a growl rushed out of his mouth, and then suddenly he was leaning into her, his fingers now pressing firm circles into her small clothes while hers began to dance over his breeches, tracing and outlining the firmness she found. “Shall we retire, my lady?” He groaned into her ear, and she bit back an answering moan as she nodded breathlessly, tightening her hand to squeeze the top of his thigh. 

Suddenly his hand slipped back between her skirts and he yanked her up to stand, pulling her so forcefully her chair tipped back while he nearly drug her off the dais and back towards their tent. As he shoved open the flap and pulled her inside, he spun her firmly and pressed an hot kiss to her lips, forcing them open as his tongue swept in to circle and play with hers. She wrapped her arms around him tight, pressing her body firmly into his while she lost herself in his kiss, until she felt her backside bump into their desk. His hands were behind her, pushing the books off the surface, until she heard him crinkle his fingers around one small little piece of parchment.

Yanking his head back, his hair mussed, his lids heavy with his arousal, he quickly glanced at the little letter he held in his hand before he snapped up straight, eyes narrowing as he watched her with such a coldness it chilled her to the bone. “What-“ he broke off and cleared his throat, the husky tone warming words she was certain were supposed to freeze her to her very core. “What is this, my lady?” The unreadable burning expression in her eyes made her forget every tortuous experience she’d faced with Joffrey, and before she could consider her position, she raised one dainty eyebrow at him.

“Surely, my lord, it is you who should be answering that question, and not I?” The coldness in her tone matched his own, and as he brought his face closer to stare at her nose to nose, she detected a little spark of appreciation blooming there.

He stared at her so long she had to fight the urge to fidget, calling upon every last nerve that remained in her body to still as she remained poised and passive, cold and expressionless, studying him as astutely as he was studying her.

He suddenly broke away, pulling back a foot with his mask once more firmly in place, raising an eyebrow in question. “What do you propose we do now, my lady?” 

She raised a brow in response, her cold mask matching his own, but she couldn’t quite hide the taunt in her tone as she baited him in response. “Is it not obvious, my lord?”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowed to slits so small she was sure he couldn’t possibly see through them. “Talk, my lord,” she replied firmly to his unasked question, relaxing a fraction when she noted he had done the same. He reached his hand out for hers almost without thought, and as she saw him try to quickly jerk it back she reached and took a firm hold, twining her fingers in his. While his thumb began to trace lazily over her knuckles and he watched her with such guarded eyes she was certain she’d never detect anything but again, she smiled sadly and repeated. “We should talk.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright you guys. After hours of tweaking and drafting and scrapping and reworking, I think I'm finally happy with this chapter. I anxiously look forward to your thoughts :)
> 
> P.S. Two chapters in one day?! Happy Monday! :D

Sansa gave his fingers a light squeeze as she inclined her head and nodded towards the chair next to the fire, raising an eyebrow. His gray eyes, cold and sharp as ever, narrowed as he regarded her before slowly striding over and reclining into the chair. She bit her lip, glancing around until she felt his hand lightly tug hers. Her eyes shot back up to his, and she felt her own narrowing gaze answering him in kind as she pursed her lips in thought. “My lord, need I fear you in this moment?” She asked him quietly, still gently holding his hand in hers.

The skin around his eyes crinkled as he considered her question before a heavy sigh left him. “Do not lie to me, my lady. As long as you never lie, you need not fear me.” His soft spoken words were laced with a vein of steel, and she fought back a shiver as she nodded firmly in agreement. His lips twitching almost so slightly as to not be noticed, he gave her hand a gentle tug. As her feet followed her arm’s direction, she quickly found herself curled up in his lap, bottom resting between his thighs, legs and skirts gathered up and thrown over the arm of the chair while her back rested against the other, her hand still holding his while his other arm wrapped firmly over her legs, resting against the top of her thighs. 

“How do you propose we proceed, my lady?” The silken tenor was easing through her mind like a caress, softening her fears and smoothing her feathers until she felt her body relaxing into her husband’s embrace.

Sansa sighed, frowning as she raised her eyes to study his once more. “Roose?” Her voice came out soft, fragile as a bird’s, and she cleared her throat as he trained his eyes on hers, granting her his full attention. “Roose,” she began again, firmer this time. “I do not expect you to spill all your deepest darkest secrets, nor do I intend to grant you mine in return.” He frowned, his eyes narrowing to slits, as he quirked a brow for her to continue. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and she pressed on before she forgot her nerve. “Do not lie to me either, Roose. Please.” 

She watched his throat bob as he swallowed, and while her heart fluttered and her eyes darted over his face she did not waver, and after a long pause he nodded in agreement. “Say it,” she whispered, eyes boring into his lips now as she watched them with fascination. “Tell me you will not lie to me.”

His shrewd gaze was unreadable, and after a slow blink he raised their twined fingers to press them gently to his chest. “I will not lie to you, Sansa. I will not always answer, but when I do, know my words are for true. Even if it may pain you, even if you beg and plead one day, I will not lie to you.”

She pressed her lips into a firm line, blinking back the tears that pricked as she nodded firmly and gently pulled their hands away from his chest to press them into hers, raising her eyes back to his. “I will not lie to you, Roose. I will not always answer, but when I do, know my words are for true.” 

And while her husband’s face was as sharp and unyielding as ever, his eyes had slowly softened, a bit of the warmth seeping back in, and he nodded in response.

~*~

She was a queer one, his little wife. Meek as a mouse yet fierce as a wolf. She had somehow slipped in past his guard, somehow found a little sliver in the coldness he showed the world, stabbing it with a pick until the sliver widened to a crack, and as she cradled his hand to her chest he felt her picking that crack once more as he fought desperately to keep it from splitting open wide and baring his soul.

And though he should hate her for it, despise her with his very being, he found with no small sense of bewilderment he truly felt the very opposite. He felt a sense of respect, a regard, a feeling that perhaps he was now looking at someone who could one day be an equal, rather than a pawn. Gods help him, but here he was, caught in the act of treason, and yet his pretty little wife was sprawled on his lap, her expression fierce as she bit her lip and prepared to attempt to coax his transgressions from him. 

His lips twitched as he realized not with a small amount of amusement that he had intended this exact purpose as well, though it never occurred to him he would be the target. 

He heard her sigh, felt her cool breath fan his neck, and with an admonishment to himself that he should stem the tide of his budding arousal at the amount of strength and control his little wolf showed at the moment, he gave her his rapt attention.

~*~

“I know that correspondence is to you from Lord Frey, and I know that with respect to my brother’s camp and host, it is nothing good,” she started, carefully studying his face.

He was impassive, made of stone, not a muscle twitched, not a brow flickered, not even a glimmer in one eye.

“Was that a question, my lady?” He drawled coldly, the bored tone indicating he was already less than impressed with her ability to play whatever game they were playing.

She breathed in heavily before exhaling through her nose, pressing her lips into a firm line. As she opened her mouth to begin again, he cut her off coldly. “You may choose one question regarding the letter, Sansa, and I will answer it.” A smile flickered over her face before his jaw clenched firmly. “Only one, Sansa. Choose wisely.” 

Her smile faltered as a thousand questions raced through her mind, and at her huff of annoyance she saw the skin around her husband’s eyes crinkle ever so slightly. Only one? How on earth was she going to gather enough information to make up her mind, all from one question? Should she ask him what the hour of the wolf meant- what was intended? Should she ask who Lord Frey’s partner was, as they letter clearly implied there was one? Should she dare ask if he’d responded? But then she would still not know _what_ he had responded, and quite clearly at that stage that was far more important. 

Her mind spun in a circle, thoughts swirling round and round, until his low growl of impatience had her blurting out what immediately came to mind. “Why?”

That brought him up short, and she watched a tiny little crack fissure into his carefully composed demeanor before the coldness returned in full force. “Specifics, my lady. Why, what?”

Her nostrils flared as her mind raced, and she internally berated herself for such a stupid question to begin with. Why? _That_ was what she wasted her one question on? _Why?!_ What in the seven hells did it matter why?!

The air left her in a rush as a calculated gleam slipped into her eye, and she flickered her gaze to look at her husband beneath her lashes. If there’s one thing she learned during her painful time at court, you could learn a lot about a man, and you could predict a vast majority of his behaviors, if you understood why it was he was acting in the first place. _Why_ was perhaps the most insightful question she had in her arsenal. “Why would you participate, if you were to accept?” 

He hummed, tilting his head back to the side to rest it against the back of the chair as he looked over her face. There was something there in the corner of his eyes, and she was vain enough to admit she fervently hoped he was secretly pleased. “If I were to accept, it would be because the situation held enough promise to advance House Bolton.”

Greed. It was so basic, so simple, she was surprised she hadn’t known it immediately. Her husband’s loyalties were not fickle like her mother suspected, not cryptic or hidden or easily bought or bartered, not when you got right down to it. Her husband was loyal to himself, above all others, and himself only. And he would act in whatever way stood to benefit him most.

Swallowing, an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of her stomach, Sansa gracefully inclined her head. “It is your turn, my lord.” 

He hummed again, his sharp eyes never leaving hers, watching her carefully as he deliberated briefly. “What did your mother want from you as you walked the camp the other day.” 

Sansa paled, no doubt in her mind that her husband had noticed, and she fought to control the shake beginning to tremble in her limbs. The thumb grazing circles over her knuckles brought her back with a jolt, and the trembling ceased as she remembered his promised and held her head high. 

Well, Roose was brief to the point of vagueness, direct to the point of confusion, so perhaps she could give it a try. Honesty was honesty, certainly, no matter how many words were used or truths were spilled. One question. 

“She wished me to spy on you, my lord.” 

~*~

Roose was clinging to every ounce of self control as he fought against the urge to grab his wife roughly and demand she spill each and every last word from her conversation with her mother. 

He was positive his mounting fury was written all over his worn face, and positive he did not care a wit. Gods _damn_ Catelyn Stark and her incessant meddling. Gods damn that bitch put herself between him and his wife. 

The trembling began once again on his lap, and with a withering glare towards the fire his thumb began to stroke along his wife’s knuckles once more. It was certainly not her fault her dim-witted mother came to her and begged her to spy.

That thought brought him up short. Was she?

“I believe you’ve earned yourself a second question, my lady,” he said coldly, keeping his hard eyes trained on the flames. Best she not see how close he was to breaking altogether.

“You first, Roose,” she whispered softly, and with a frown and a flicker of his eyes he quickly realized how close his wife was to breaking, as well. 

This would not do at all. 

“Perhaps a change in venue for the second round, my lady?”

Her lips pursed into a frown, and with a jolt he realized he wanted nothing more than to kiss that pretty frown right off of her pretty face. While his breeches began to tighten in a _most_ uncomfortable manner, he watched his wife’s brow crease in concern. “Where do you wish to go, my lord?”

Tightening to the point of pain, he allowed a lascivious smile to tug at his lips, his eyes gleaming by the light of the fire. “Why, my lady,” he said softly, a spark racing through him as he saw her eyes darken and felt the shiver race across her shoulders. “I thought perhaps we might continue our discussion amongst our furs.”

Her pretty blue eyes rapidly flitting from his warm gray ones, he growled in satisfaction as a blush bloomed on her cheeks and her teeth came down to halt the spread of a slow smile. “As you wish, my lord.” 

Rising with a speed he was sure would do his younger self proud, he cradled his wife in his arms and tossed her just a little roughly onto their bed of pillows and furs.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Jennilynn411 and iheartloki, both of whom strongly encouraged the methods of persuasion used. :)
> 
> I hope I live up to expectations with this one. I am blown away by the support for this story, and I just can't wait to take this through to the end.

Sansa took a moment, sprawled out over their bed with her skirts in disarray, to appreciate just how precarious her current situation actually was. Yes, her and her husband had come to an accord. Yes, she believed he was truthful, for the seriousness in his gaze matched the serious in his tone when they made their vows of honesty. 

However, that did not change the fact that she admitted to her lord husband that her own mother had asked her to spy on him. Nor did it change the fact that in all likelihood, whatever scheme the Frey’s were planning that potentially involved her husband, would likely bring nothing but despair to her mother and brother. 

And maybe even her, as well.

She watched Roose unfasten and remove his doublet before slowly reclining to join her on their bed, his eyes narrowed and hooded as he stared away from her towards the diminishing fire. She struggled under the bulk of her skirts to pull up into a comfortable position, and the chuckle rumbling from her husband’s chest had a flash of desire racing to her core. “Perhaps you might be more comfortable if you removed your gown, my lady,” he said wryly, a hint of condemnation in his tone that plucked against her fraying nerves.

“Indeed I would be, my lord. I most certainly did not throw myself across the furs,” she grumbled as she pushed up to stand and began to undo the front lacings of her gown. Fumbling with a note she didn’t even hear it when he rose back up from their bed and slipped up to hover behind her.

“Allow me, my lady,” was all the warning she had before his arms came down from atop her shoulders, descending to take hold and begin to gently work about the laces of her gown. She could feel the heat radiating off of him into her slender back, and the feel of his breath ghosting over the bare nape of her neck had her mind beginning to whirl with renewed arousal. 

As the last lace came free Sansa brought her hands up to take hold, murmuring “Th-thank you, my lord,” a little more breathlessly than she’d ever intended.

Strong hands caught hold of hers, and he slipped his hands to cover the backs of hers, guiding her as she pushed her dress down, his fingertips lingering over the soft skin of her arms as the fabric slid down to pool in a heap around her feet. In the blink of an eye she found herself scooped up once more, and she fought to suppress a giggle as he once again tossed her like a sack of potatoes onto their bed. “My lord! That is most improper,” she whispered in amusement, and the dark gleam in his eyes as he crawled in after her had her pulse picking up to thrum happily away in her chest. 

“My lady, I fear if you wished for a husband who cared for proprieties, you shall find my sorely lacking,” he growled low in her ear, causing her to shiver and giggle once more. 

She cleared her throat as he began to press teasing kisses to the side of her neck, his weight resting firmly above her as he pushed her gently into the furs below her back. “My lord, I believe we have yet to resolve the matter at hand,” she said in what should have been a firm manner, but came out more of a breathless whisper as his teeth began to graze the top of her collarbone. 

He hummed in the back of his throat as he continued to press kisses down her bare chest before stopping at one perk pink nipple, his tongue dipping out to swipe the flesh before sucking it in to lightly nip and roll between his teeth. As she threaded her fingers through the hands still holding hers on either side of her head she arched with a moan, her head swimming at the sensation of him suckling at her breast. “My lord?” She whined as he licked a sinfully hot path over to lave the other nipple, before sucking it in between his teeth and granting it the same delicious treatment.

Sansa was panting now, no longer remembering what was so important in the first place as he began to leave a trail of fiery kisses all the way down her sternum to her navel, pausing to swipe his tongue at the dip where her left hip met the top of her thigh. 

“Sansa?” He whispered softly, in between light kisses that followed across her belly to the other dip on her right side. “Regardless of what I might or might not do, would you betray me to your mother?” His tongue was tracing down the dip on that side, and she fought to clear the clouds from her head as she processed his words and the distracting sensation of his fingers slipping from hers to trail over her heaving breasts while his tongue danced a pattern on the top of her thigh. 

“I-“ she broke in a sigh at his hands now firmly grasping her inner thighs to spread her legs wide, her core open for him like the petals of a flower. He blew softly into her heated center and she arched back on a cry, her eyes screwed shut tightly as the aching need in her core threatened to overwhelm all other senses.

His hands kneaded and pressed into the flesh of her thighs as he continued to blow lightly against her core, clearly waiting on something. What on earth was he waiting for?

As if he could read her thoughts, Roose chuckled darkly and clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Answer the question, Sansa. Answers for touches, remember?” 

Oh, yes. What had he asked her again? She bit her lip when those teasing fingers trailed close, so close to where she was growing slick with need, and she fought to recall what exactly he’d said.

Oh, _yes_. That was the question, wasn’t it? Would she betray him? Was there even anything to betray?

The feeling of his tongue sliding along the dip in her hip had her once more jolting back to the present, and with no small amount effort she pushed herself up to meet the gaze of the man between her thighs.

Oh, _gods_. There he was, eyes so dark, so gray they reminded her of a storm about to break, his hands sliding along her inner thighs, his lips hovering precariously from where she desperately needed him most. 

His eyes burning into hers, he inched, ever closer, until the tip of his tongue was barely a breath away from the wetness now dripping down to coat between her thighs. One eyebrow raised slowly to arch high in question, and with a shaking gasp she shrugged a shoulder, her hooded gaze burning as it met her husbands. “I haven’t decided.”

With a loud moan Sansa collapsed back onto the furs as his tongue swiped a long stroke from her dripping core up to the little ball of flesh, before he pulled back with a growl of disapproval. Sansa whined in protest and bucked her hips up in a desperate attempt for more, and he once more clucked his tongue and shook his head in disapproval. “That is not an answer, Sansa,” he said quietly, voice dangerously low, and through the haze of lust she fought to blink her eyes and peak back down at him once more. 

She watched as the tip of his tongue swiped across his bottom lip, and she fought back a shudder as she desperately bucked towards him once more. The slow shake of his head and the burning in his eyes had her rolling and closing her own in frustration, and with a pained sigh she felt the tears begin to prick as she pressed her mouth into a firm line. A gentle tug on her fingers had her eyes shooting open, and through the tears and the lust she frowned and whispered sadly. “I am sorry, Roose. Right now, it is the only answer I have to give.”

As the first tear started to fall she tried to pull away, shifting her legs to push back on the bed and tugging her hands from his grasp. A moment and one shift more and she found herself abruptly being tugged back down, the grip on her buttocks like steel as he spread and lifted her before his mouth. With a cry of alarm she blinked back the tears and watched him with confusion, swallowing back the lump that had caught in her throat.

His expression was as hard and unyielding as ever, but the light in his eyes had the flicker of a smile passing over her face in response. “I believe you, my lady,” he said softly, before his mouth once more descended over her heated core.

He feasted between her thighs, his tongue swirling over her bud of pleasure before swiping down to plunge into her wet apex, licking up her juices as she threw her head back and screamed his name, fisting her hands in the sheets as she offered it up like a prayer to the gods, screaming repeatedly until she broke apart into a thousand tiny pieces, her heart flying up to live with the gods while her mind shattered as her husband lapped at her core. 

With a growl of satisfaction, he slowly climbed up towards her, and with a small amount of surprise Sansa realized she had no idea when he’d removed his linen shirt and breeches. As he hovered over her, his gaze hooded while she blinked up at him sleepily, he leaned down to whisper softly into her ear. “I believe I owe you a question, my lady.”

Sansa bit her lip and blinked up at him for a moment before shyly reaching up to push his shoulders, pushing until he was flipped onto his back and reclining casually against the furs. He lifted a brow in amusement as she blushed and crawled on top of him. Straddling his waist as she gripped his shoulders to steady her body. “My lady?” His deep voice rumbled with pleasure as she leaned down to press a gentle kiss to the center of his chest, peaking up at him from between her lashes. 

“Yes, my lord?”

She began to lick and kiss a trail over his chest, exploring each ripple of muscle, pausing to soothe each pale silver scar, until she found herself coming back up to the center to gaze at him once more.

He was panting now, gritting his teeth as he fought to allow her to keep control, and she had to fight back a smile as she heard his tight voice speak louder than he had all evening, straining with need. “Your question, my lady,” he ground out, eyes shut and jaw flexing with the last vestiges of his control. 

The exploration of his firm, muscled torso had the wetness once more slicking her core, and with the glimmer of a thought she began to slowly grind it against the hard erection pressing firmly between them. The choking cough that burst from his mouth had her smiling fully now, and she bit her lip and firmly pressed her hands to his chest as she rubbed herself over him, sighing in pleasure when the ridge at the top of his hardness brushed against that sensitive spot between her folds. With a groan of impatience his hands came up to grip her wrists firmly, his eyes blazing into hers, so dark they were nearly black in the firelight. “Ask it or lose it, Sansa,” he said roughly, and with one last swipe of her hips she fought to slow her racing heart and asked what she needed to know most.

“Are the decisions you make for you, or for us, Roose?” She asked softly, tears pricking her eyes as the swoop in her belly told her the answer to this question would likely mean far more to her than it ever should have. 

A flash of surprise followed by a gleam of appreciation slipped into his eyes, and he pressed his lips as he tilted his head in thought, hips coming up to thrust against her heated core almost lazily while he considered her question.

After a lengthy silence that nearly had her calling the question back, a flicker of a smile crossed his usually drawn lips, flashing so quickly it was gone in an instant. He squeezed his hands as he quietly responded, his eyes once more burning into hers as they conveyed the sincerity in his words. “For us, my lady,” he said slowly, before leaning up to brush his lips over hers in a soft kiss. “Any decisions I have made and will make, are for us.” 

Her nerves swooped into the pit of her stomach as her heart sored, and she had to blink back a fresh wave of tears pricking the corners of her eyes as she gripped the sides of his face firmly. “ _Promise me_ ,” she whispered fiercely, blue eyes shining into gray. 

With a growl, he lifted her hips quickly in one hand before sliding her down and thrusting up into her core, sending waves of pleasure shooting down to curl her toes as he filled her completely. “I promise you, Sansa.” 

He grasped her hips firmly and set her on a lazy rhythm as she road him, his hardness filling her near to bursting as she threw her head back with abandon, giving herself over to the pleasure of his words in her heart and his body in her own. As she picked up speed and chased her climax, Sansa snapped her head back suddenly to gaze into the gray eyes that seemed to see into her very soul. “I will not betray you, Roose,” she whispered as her legs began to shake and the first ripples of pleasure contracted around him. “I cannot,” she said softly, something close to sadness creeping into her tone as she burst apart once more, quivering and clenching around him as she cried out his name and collapsed in his arms.

With a few thrusts more Roose was joining her, spilling his seed with a groan as he whispered her name into her hair, catching and holding her as she fell against his chest and tucked her forehead against his. He reclined back against the furs, pulling her until she was tucked up against his chest, and as she sighed into his shoulder he ran his fingers through her hair. “I know, Sansa,” he said quietly, fingers scratching her scalp before running through her long auburn tresses once more. As her eyes fluttered shut and she fought to still the racing of her heart, she heard him whisper once more. “Believe me, I know.”


	12. Chapter 12

Sansa awoke naked, buried beneath the furs, and arched her back and stretched lazily like one of little Tommen’s cats. Her body luxuriously sated, her mind still drousy as she worked out the soreness left by yet another romp beneath the furs with her lord husband the night before.

She should be furious that he was in all likelihood going to betray her family.

She should be furious that he refused to give her a direct answer on it.

She should be furious that he’d resorted to _most inappropriate_ interrogation tactics to pull information from her, until she was moaning and writhing and screaming his name. And until she discovered that said tactics seem to be most _effective_ on him as well.

Yet what really seemed to infuriate her most this instant was none of those or the thousand other things that should. No, Sansa was furious that he’d left her, naked and lazy and completely wanton, without one more romp this morning.

Blinking her eyes open sleepily, she rolled her eyes and smirked softly at her own stupid wanton behavior. She really was a silly little thing, just as they’d all said time and time again.

For now, she simply didn’t care.

She glanced over her shoulder at her husband’s pillow, and found one delicately folded piece of parchment resting there, marked with her name across it. With a giggle of delight, she reached out and greedily tore open the ribbon he’d used to bind it.

_Sansa,_

_Let us put our accord to the test. After you’ve bathed and dressed, please have Ser Royce escort you to the war council._

_Roose_

Sansa’s heart leapt in her throat. What on earth was he planning now?

~*~

After a brief bathe and several nibbles on a thick wedge of bread, Sansa had her maid dress her in another one of her newest creations, sewn with the remainder of the silks and trims gifted by her lord husband, as well as a few of her own. After quite a lot of bartering and begging on her part, she was finally able to convince a maid to trade some of her old materials for several additional fabrics to add to her armoire, and the combination she slipped on now had the maids all sighing in awe as they clucked and praised her beauty.

The main material was a heavy gray velvet, warm in the coming winter, a shade exactly matching the shade of her husband’s eyes when they darkened in lust. The laces and trimmings perfectly matched the red of the Bolton sigil, and she’d sewn in the fine thread provided by her husband a series of direwolves racing around the borders of the neckline and the sleeves. However, as one looked closer, it became obvious that the furs of the wolves were actually microscopic flayed men, one after the other, carefully arranged to coat the wolf and make up the fur.

Sansa had begun the embroidery ever since her husband first returned from the raid, and with the help of a small army of maids, this morning it had finally been completed. 

Sansa took several ribbons, one the same shade as the flayed man, the other as the direwolf, and delicately wove each in with a braid on either side of her hair, pulling them back until they met at the crown of her head, the braids twined until the hair flowed joined down the nape of her neck in the loose northern style. 

Giving herself a nod for courage and a small smile of approval as she shifted her dress in front of the mirror, she finally turned to and made her way towards the flap of the tent. Head held high, she strode out to meet the appraising gaze of Ser Royce as he turned from his post to the right of the flap. 

Sansa raised one brow and fidgeted a bit in question, and as he studied the tiny direwolves and noted the intricate pattern of flayed men, he smiled broadly and nodded in approval. Offering her his arm, he escorted her towards the war council. “Well done, my lady,” he said softly under his breath, and Sansa had to fight back a smile.

“Thank you, Ser,” she whispered in reply, fingers tightening on his arm in anxiety as she spotted the tent in the distance.

He cleared his throat, stopping them a few feet before the front, turning to glance at her sharply. “My lady, if I may…”

Sansa swallowed thickly and nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“My lady. Never doubt you do House Bolton proud, and none other would dare to, either,” he said firmly, eyes softening the seriousness of the advice, and Sansa smiled gratefully as she raised her head higher than ever before and painted herself in courtly courtesies thicker than armor. 

“Thank you, Ser Royce,” she said quietly, before turning to walk through the flap of the tent and be announced to the King and his council.

~*~

Roose reclined in the corner of the table, hand covering his lips as he studied the King before him. Apparently, the boy _still_ had not taken action against the Greyjoys or bothered to send forces to reclaim Winterfell. This morning, they’d been greeted with word that the youngest Stark boys were believed to still be held prisoner inside, though none could say for certain as the following ravens had all been killed by the iron born.

His cold eyes surveyed the scene unfolding before him, in which the boy blustered about his might in battle while his mother moaned for the fate of her children and cursed the Lannister’s once more for all that had befallen them since Ned Stark agreed to ride south as the Hand.

Roose had to fight, strongly, against the urge to roll his eyes towards the heavens as his other hand tightened imperceptibly around the arm of his chair. 

What did it _matter_ what the Lannister’s had done, were doing, or were going to do? If they couldn’t even hold the bloody North, they couldn’t well hold much of anything, at all. 

The tent flap opened suddenly, cutting off the incessant nattering of the Lady Stark, and suddenly a vision in dark gray and blood red swept into the tent before them, head held high, expression carefully blank, bearing that of a Queen. 

Roose felt his entire body still as he took in his wife, from the gray and red ribbons twined through the curls of her hair, across the dark gray dress delicately embroidered with wolves, down to the toes of her soft gray boots. As his eyes flicked over towards Lady Stark, he noted that the woman looked positively gleeful as she surveyed her daughter, until all of a sudden she tensed and her smile dropped into a look of unmitigated fury. 

Raising a brow to wonder what offense his wife could have already offered not two seconds after entering the council, he surveyed her attire once more as she gracefully reclined in the chair offered her next to him by the Greatjon, who moved one seat over. And when he saw what had gone unnoticed by the boy and what had enraged the mother, Roose actually had to bite back a smile.

For the direwolves encircling his wife’s lovely chest and lovely wrists were not really direwolves at all. They were a careful pattern of flayed men, laid with more intricacy and delicacy than he thought had ever been afforded such a gruesome sight, weaving together to make up the image of the wolf that was seen upon initial inspection. 

His eyes darkened as he looked on while his lady coolly regarded the gentleman and Lady before her, before she arched a brow and nodded graciously for them to continue. She had yet to meet his gaze, but he thought that might be for the best at this moment, because he had the uncomfortable feeling that his desire to bend his wife over this table and fuck her until she screamed might just be written all over his usually hard face.

“Sansa, I didn’t expect you to join us,” King Robb said warmly, smiling at his sister where she reclined with more grace and poise than Roose had ever detected in his foreign whore of a wife.

She cleared her throat delicately, granting her brother a soft smile as she casually inclined her head, never once looking away from his gaze. “Yes, Your Grace. In fact, I had asked my lord husband if he minded if I attended, and he said if I received your blessing, Your Grace, I had his as well.” 

King Robb smiled fondly, nodding as her mother’s eyes spat daggers at Roose’s head. “Of course, Sansa. I had no idea you were interested in these affairs, but you are originally a Stark of Winterfell, after all. We would be happy to have your presence. Wouldn’t we, mother?”

The question was innocent, and clearly showed he was unaware of the thickening tension between mother and daughter. Yet Lady Stark couldn’t risk alerting other lords to it as well, so with a sickeningly sweet smile, she nodded patronizingly at his lady wife. “Yes, Sansa, if you wish to learn more of your brother’s successes, we would be happy to have you join us.”

Roose’s eyes narrowed as he felt Lady Stark’s sharp gaze cut into him once more, but his wife’s cool response had his chest swelling with pride as he realized his decision in asking her to join him was the right one. “Certainly, mother. I most fervently wish to learn more of my brother’s _successes_.”

The emphasis was so subtle, if you had no notion of his wife’s mannerisms, you would never have detected the slight scorn underneath, given she was well aware of his recent string of failures. So while Lady Stark glowered and plotted from the corner, Roose felt his thin lips tip up in a smile.

~*~

The council lasted straight until supper, and despite the hours upon hours of banter back and forth, Sansa had yet to detect any really progress made on the number of disconcerting concerns at hand, most pressing in her mind the taking of Winterfell. Now seated once more at the end of the high table between her husband and the Greatjon, Sansa could feel the undercurrent of discontent as palpable as a stream cutting through the camp. 

Robb could not afford to wait much longer, and each wasted second was folly in her mind. He could not endlessly deliberate, nor prolong with whiffs and whims of battle.

No. Her brother had to learn how to actually _rule_. 

Observing the council today, it became glaringly obvious that though her brother’s skill in battle held immense promise, his skill in politics was barely above a child’s. And it was inevitably going to damn the Northerners who followed him. Her lord husband included. 

Dinner was a somber affair beyond the immediate circle surrounding her brother, and with a sigh Sansa turned to invite her husband to retire for the evening. Steel eyes and the softening of his lips greeted her soft smile, but the clang of a cup had them both glancing quickly towards the King and Queen. Robb was gesturing her over, so with a regretful smile Sansa squeezed her husband’s arm as she rose and made her way to the center of the dais.

The Queen was laughing loudly as Sansa approached, her arm draped casually over her mother’s, and Sansa watched with a sinking stomach as her mother smiled warmly, her weary expression for once unguarded. Robb bent his head at something the women said, and soon the three were tipping their heads back and laughing to the point of tears, while the bewildered Northmen looked on. Sansa felt her heart clench painfully as she came to stand next to her brother and watch her mother brush the hair back from Queen Talisa’s face, and she wondered bitterly where that affection for her had gone since the time she left Winterfell all those months ago. 

“Your Grace, Your Grace, mother,” she greeted them, courtly mask ever in place to hide her pain, as she’d learned from Joffrey time and time again.

“Sansa,” her brother began, smiling over his overflowing cup of wine. “I wanted to tell you that you are more than welcome to join us in the council anytime your husband allows it.” 

Sansa smiled tightly, inclining her head and ignoring the sharp eyes of the women before her as she chirped her thanks to her brother.

Talisa leaned over to whisper in her mother’s ear, and Sansa flushed in anger as her mother began to giggle and laugh as if they were girls. Lady Stark’s voice cut across the din of the camp as they rose from dinner while several bards struck up a dance. “Though I wish the circumstances of your beginning had differed, dear child,” her mother said happily to the Queen, “I must say I find in you all I’d hoped for in a daughter.” The words echoed until settling painfully inside Sansa’s breast to squeeze her heart near to the point of breaking as she watched her mother and the Queen stroll away, arm in arm, to the group of dancers gathered.

A numbness stole through Sansa’s veins to freeze her limbs, and all hint of tears receded as she watched her mother and her brother’s Queen embrace like family. Her husband’s hand slipped into the one clutching the edge of the table painfully, and as he gently pried her fingers apart and began to rub small circles over her palm, he leaned in close behind her to whisper in her ear. “Let us retire, my lady.”

Sansa’s jaw clenched as watched the last vestiges of her hope for her mother’s love die before her. Turning, she nodded numbly and allowed him to lead her away from the din and laughter that was taunting her in her despair. As he followed her into their tent he gently held on to her hand, tugging her towards the chair by the fire. 

She watched the flames flicker, and thought of the fickleness of the loyalties of men, marveling at the naïve little girl she had been to assume that blood ran thicker than water. She snorted at herself, ignoring the sharp eyes of the man at her side as she realized that in this world, it seemed that nothing ran thicker than greed and gold.

She felt him tug gently at her hand, his arm bumping her softly as he nodded towards the chair, silently encouraging her to sit. With a clenched jaw, Sansa turned her cold blue eyes to his, resignation weighing her heart as she realized what must be done.

She watched his handsome brow arch in question, and allowed her eyes to roam his face before uttering the words that would change their course forever.

“The Queen is with child, Roose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, folks.
> 
> P.S. Have you checked out LadyGrey81's "True or False"?! Because it is amazing. ;)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you squint, you might find a small strand of plot in this chapter. ;)
> 
> Dedicated to iheartloki, who tirelessly requests rough and dirty smut, and to thedarkeuphie, who inspired this with a one-shot prompt. :)

He felt the blood drain from his face as his throat went dry and he choked for air, his wife’s words echoing in the cavernous space between them.

Sansa stood before him limply, her dull eyes unseeing as she tilted her head and looked towards the fire. She repeated it once more, the lack of emotion more unsettling than he would have believed, and a chill swept through him as he processed the words. “The Queen is with child, Roose.”

He swallowed, desperate for something to quench the burning in the back of his throat, and glanced around before firmly squeezing his fists to his sides. Wine would dull the senses, and at this time he couldn’t afford to be less than sharp.

Watching his wife watch the flames, he was struck by how flat she was before him. She was a shell of the woman he’d seen flare to life in the war council, draped in a mixture of Bolton and Stark, head held high and proud like a Queen. No longer, now he only saw a tiny little thing that just might have been pushed beyond her brink, and she seemed to willow under the weight of the world pressing upon those thin pale shoulders.

He tilted his head as he studied her, studiously ignoring the creep along his spine that was urging him to reach out and offer her some comfort. He’d heard the words her mother had uttered as she escorted the Queen from the table. He’d seen the ache that clouded Sansa’s eyes as she finally grappled with what he’d known all along. She was just a pawn, a piece her mother played with, a gamble that she’d lost. 

He needed to be concerned with the matter at hand, and the threat that babe would hold for the realm. He shouldn’t worry about the hopes and dreams of a girl pining for the love she’d lost from her mother; that was none of his concern.

He repeated it to himself firmly, clenching his jaw and working his fists as the spark of a plan began to form in his mind. Perhaps, it was time for House Bolton to play for themselves in this game of power and thrones. And perhaps, with no small amount of finesse, they would flay the lion and the wolf, rising themselves above all others as blood dripped down the Iron Throne.

As the wheels began to work and his mind leapt one, two, three, four steps past the one they must take now, he found his eyes blurring as he watched the pieces moved, calculated the risks and rewards. 

That was, until his wife finally turned back towards him, flames behind her alighting her auburn curls until they seemed to dance and shimmer, lit by a fire that was all her own. As his eyes swept through the cascade of fiery curls to the pale face underneath, for the first time he felt his breath coming short and his mind wiping clean as something he’d deny clenched painfully in his breast.

Tears shimmered in eyes that were darker than a tempest on the ocean, pleading and pulling him in until he was inches from the storm. He raised his hand to thread his pale fingers through those burning curls, nearly surprised they did not scald his skin, and the direwolves and flayed men nearly came to life as they raced around his wife’s outstretched hand as it moved up to desperately clasp his own.

“Make me forget for tonight, Roose,” she asked softly, small voice breaking as one thick tear stained its way down one pale cheek, glistening in the light of the flames of her hair. “Tomorrow, I will remember. But for tonight-“ her voice broke, and he felt a thousand times over the weight of that tear pressing on his wife’s soft cheek as if it pressed in on his chest in response. Her breath shuddered in her breast as she closed her eyes, closed him off from the storm and the ache. “For tonight, we are just two people. We are not players, we are not pawns, we do not break, and we do not bleed. Tonight, Roose, all I want is to _feel_.”

Swallowing down the thousand thoughts, the annoyance and the ache, and the odd stuttering in his chest, he nodded in response, steel eyes burning warm and bright as he looked down on his lady. “As you wish, Sansa,” he whispered across her skin, bending his head to claim her lips.

And he forgot his reminder, his stern command that he’d given himself only moments before. He forgot that he was not supposed to care.

~*~

Sansa felt the tears drip down her cheeks to wet her chin as her husband claimed her lips in a kiss that burned brighter than a thousand suns, breathing life back into her limbs and her heart. She twined her hands around his neck, pressed her body close to his, wrapping around him like a vine that clung to the life he was giving her in every swipe of his tongue and press of his lips.

He ravaged her, his kiss hard and punishing and bruising in nature, and with a heat in her belly and fire in her eyes she rose to meet him, swipe for swipe, kiss for kiss, catching his lower lip between her teeth as she fought to claim what she knew was not hers. 

He groaned as she nipped him and then dove in for more, exploring his mouth like this kiss might be the last, tasting and teasing and taking until he had no more to give. And then his tongue was back, pushing between her lips, diving into her mouth as he held her so tightly she thought she might burst, and she was pulling back to force in a breath as her head spun with lust and her lungs burned for air. 

With a curse and a growl he fisted his hands beneath her skirts, raising them up until her bare legs felt the chill of the air as he gathered them about her waist, forcing her to take the ripples of fabric between her fingers. She began to reach up to untie the lacings when a firm hand clamped down around her wrist, the silver in his eyes glittering like molten gold. “I want to see them,” he rasped, the timbre of his voice harsh and rough with want and need as he sat back in the chair next to the fire, dragging her to climb on top of his lap and straddle his strong thighs as her skirts pooled out over their bodies and draped over the arms covered in velvet. 

His hands slid up to trace the wolves and flayed men before they fisted tightly in her curls, yanking her neck back so he could devour the soft white skin lit by the flames. Sansa felt his teeth graze over her throat, his tongue lapping away each stinging nip as he peppered her in tiny marks that she realized with a hot wave of heat were in the shape of little X’s, marking her neck and breast with the mark of the flayed man. 

“Roose,” she whined, shivering and desperately rubbing the heat trapped by her drenched smallclothes against the tops of his breeches, her head swimming as she processed the little flayed men on her clothes and her breast and her neck, tiny marks over and on top of her skin. 

“They are your armor, Sansa,” he whispered thickly, pausing as he lapped at one more flayed man before reaching between them with a flash of a knife to deftly split her smallclothes in two. As his fingers dipped in to coat in the slickness, sliding along her bud of pleasure before plunging in as she moaned his name, he licked his way back up to rasp in her ear. “An armor of flayed men, shielding the wolf, and keeping the harm at bay.”

She road his fingers, walls clenching, lips parting in moans and sighs as she shivered and drew in his words, letting them seep in until the armor of flayed men closed in around her heart. His thumb began to circle in tune with the timing of the thrusts of his fingers, and his tongue trailed hotly over her neck as she threw back her head and howled her pleasure to the wind, losing herself in the man worshipping her skin and the pledge worshipping her soul.

As her climax threatened to shudder around her, Sansa snapped her head up as she fiercely gripped the sides of his face. “Promise me, Roose,” she whispered, tears swimming in her eyes as she drowned in the pleasure of his hand. 

The other traced along the swell of her breasts and the direwolves made of flayed men racing along the silks. “Sansa,” he ground out, eyes blazing as he watched her take her pleasure and slake her need. “As soon as you chose to put them on, I promised to never take them off.” With a sob of pleasure and tears streaming down her face she broke and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, body clenching and consuming all he had to give her until she fell apart. 

He raised her suddenly as the lust and pleasure swept over her anew, one arm wrapped around her waist holding up her skirts while the other continued to tease between her curls, sliding the slickness up and around that little pearl of pleasure faster and faster that she fought against the overwhelming sensations and whined at him for release once more. Suddenly she felt her bare bottom smack down hard against the wood of the desk, and as she opened her eyes and raised them to him in question he was sinking down into her, thrusting so hard she threw her head back and slammed it against the desk. His hold on her hips was like iron, as unyielding as the steel shining through in his eyes, and he slammed his hips into hers in a punishing rhythm that would leave blooming bruises to match the men across her neck and chest. 

With a scream of pleasure, Sansa threw her arms back to fist her hands on the top of the desk, giving herself over to the heat and the hardness and the need, feeling all he wanted her to feel as he ravaged her body and plundered her soul. As his hips began to stutter and his rhythm fell astray, he flew into a blinding fit of need, slamming and slamming until a blinding hot white raced out of her core, shooting to the tips of her fingers and toes as they locked and clamped while wave after wave of pleasure had her sobbing into the night before fainting into the wood.

~*~

Sansa’s eyes flickered open a few moments later as she found herself tucked in against her husband’s bare chest, her armor of cloth flayed men removed for the time being. She sighed, snuggling closer and allowing herself to rise and fall with the rise and fall of his breathing.

“What have you done to me?” He rumbled quietly, suspicion dripping from his words as he twined his fingers through her hair and swept paths from her scalp down to the small of her back. 

She fought a smile as she sighed and threw a leg over his thigh. “Does it matter, Roose?”

He snorted, and she could practically see the roll of his eyes as he answered her drily. “Yes, Sansa, I find it most certainly does.” 

She sighed once more, a mixture of pleasure and annoyance, before tipping her head back to press a soft kiss to his stern jaw. “The same you have done for me, I suppose,” she whispered quietly.

He grumbled at that about how he was not the only one who had mastered the art of speaking in riddles, and with a smile she laid her head back down to rest as her eyes fluttered shut. “I forced you to feel.”


	14. Chapter 14

“My lord,” a soft voice called through the flap, causing Sansa to whine in protest in the early hours of the morning. 

“What is it, Royce?” Her husband’s deep voice rumbled in her ear, breaking off in a sigh as he heard he’d already been summoned to the war council for an urgent meeting due to developments in the night. 

Sansa huffed and burrowed deeper into the bed beneath the furs, yanking her husband’s arm back around her as he started to slip from the bed and clutching it to her chest. 

“Not now, Sansa,” he grumbled in annoyance, the wheels likely already turning as he prepared for the politicking ahead. 

She felt the arm start to slip away once more, and with a groan in protest held on tighter, wrapping it under her breast and turning so it was wedged firmly between her and the feather-ticked pallet. A sharp nip on her shoulder had her crying out in protest, and with a rough tweak of her bare nipple Roose was once again pulling away. 

She whined and sunk down deeper, refusing to turn to look at him when he asked, as he sighed heavily and rose from their bed to meet the day. She listened to his barely-there footsteps as he softly padded around the tent, dressing himself in his linen tunic, breeches, and jerkin, before pulling his black doublet overtop. A soft smile graced her face as she heard him approach her side of their bed, and she sleepily blinked her eyes open to bat her lashes coyly at him. “Do you truly need to leave?” She pouted, pink lips pursed as a teasing light shone in her eyes.

The cold stare he leveled in her direction would have set many a man quaking, but she saw the answering gleam in his eye as he brushed his fingers across her brow, fingering one long strand of auburn. “I do, minx,” he answered softly, lips twitching when she giggled in response. 

She sighed, smiling sadly as she peaked up at him from the side of the pillow. “I’ll join you later,” she replied vaguely, eyes already closing as she slipped back into sleep. 

She felt the bed dip as this lithe frame leaned over her, and the soft press of his lips against the crown had her sighing with pleasure. “See that you do,” he whispered into her ear, before catching the lobe and grazing it with his teeth, setting her to another round of giggles as he shook his head, bit back a smile, and strode purposefully out of the tent. 

Sansa rolled over, shaking her head with a smile as she wrapped her arms around his pillow and breathed in the spicy musk he left behind. Her husband truly was an enigma; more layered than an onion. And how she enjoyed peeling each one back, bit by bit, giving herself over in return, as she crawled back out of the pit of despair her time in Kings Landing left her in. 

~*~

Sansa burst into the council tent quite a few hours later wearing her gray silk and pink lace gown, her thick white mantle of furs wrapped over her shoulders, and was immediately wary of the flurry of excitement and raised voices. 

Padding silently over to stand behind the chair of her husband, she gratefully accepted the seat the Greatjon offered and sat back to observe the fuss. 

“I don’t understand why your son cannot go instead, Lord Umber,” her mother was pleading, eyes bright as she shot fiery glares in Roose’s direction.

“Well, my lady, if Ramsay Snow is close-“ the Greatjon blustered, before being cut off once more.

“A bastard cannot hold Winterfell!” She exclaimed, studiously ignoring the sharp gaze of the very tense Lord Bolton. He was the picture of coiled restraint, muscles tensed as he reclined in the chair, chin resting on his upturned hand as his eyes flickered back and forth, observing the proceedings. The cold fury that glittered in his eyes had even Sansa’s blood freezing over, and she marveled that his own house words did not reflect the coming winter, as she was now very certain he carried the frost in his ice-gray eyes. 

As Sansa sucked in a breath to respond, she felt Roose’s hand clamp down hard around her own, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in silent request. _Not yet_ , they told her, fingers twining with her own. _The time is not yet right._

A few more rounds of bickering, and a few more protests by the Greatjon, and they were once more brought around to the fact that none other were closer or more able than Ramsay Snow. “But you cannot _control_ that boy, Robb,” Lady Stark pleaded, her eyes wild as she gripped his arm tightly. 

“Mother-“ Robb broke in, before his Queen, smiling snidely, interrupted, placing a gentle hand on his arm as she nodded along in agreement with Lady Stark. 

“I fear it may not engender much support among the men, to hear we sent a bastard to retake and hold Winterfell, my King,” she said sweetly, a sickly smile of regret pasted across her face. 

 

The hand on hers relaxed, and she knew it was time to strike. Summoning all of the poise and grace that had been burned into her since she first step foot in Kings Landing, Sansa opened her mouth to speak quietly to the room. “Your Grace,” she began, carefully ignoring the irate glares thrown by her mother and Queen Talisa in her direction. “Surely it would engender far more support to have a bastard supporter holding Winterfell, rather than an Ironborn who turned traitor and burned your brothers,” she finished sharply. 

“That is neither here nor there-“ Queen Talisa began, before Sansa interrupted. 

“With respect, Your Grace, I believe that it very much is.” Turning a small smile towards her brother who nodded in encouragement, Sansa continued once more. “You cannot hope to hold the North if you cannot hold your own castle, brother,” she said softly, cautiously keeping her tone neutral and her expression bland.

Robb frowned grimly, before nodding in agreement. “Aye, Sansa, you are right.” His eyes scanned the room, before he finally settled on Roose, who had remained coldly impassive and deathly silent since Sansa had entered the tent. “Can you get word to your son, my lord?”

Roose’s jaw clenched as he firmly nodded once in agreement. “It shall be done immediately, sire,” he said quietly, silken voice so soft Sansa observed others leaning forward in their chairs to catch his words. 

She filed that little note away for practice, later. Perhaps there was far more power in silence and soft-spoken words than she’d ever imagined. 

“My King, back to the raiders spotted several leagues West,” the Greatjon boomed, turning talk back towards strategy and war. Sansa felt her mind wander as her husband’s thumb stroked slowly around her fingers, grazing her so lightly it raised bumps along her arm. Turning her head, she realized with a jolt that somewhere along the way, she’d actually decided he was truly quite handsome.

He was nothing like the knight of her dreams, and nothing like her first “love” King Joffrey. In the harsh angles of his face, the stern set of his jaw, the cold glittering eyes, and even in his thinning hairline, it was blatantly obvious. He was a man who had seen and survived more than a few battles. He was a man who had seen and survived more than few Kings. He was a man who made others quake in fear, whose presence dominated a room, whose few words dominated discussion. A man who had committed countless atrocities, and who would likely commit countless more. A man whose greed was his underlying moral compass. A man who could be trusted to commit treason if that was what would most benefit his needs and his House.

He was nothing she’d ever wanted, nothing she’d ever dreamed of, and yet, in this life, she felt he was everything she ever needed. In a world of play-Kings and politics, of bloodshed and war, Roose was, more than anything, a man.

And she, Sansa Stark, Sansa _Bolton_ , was without a doubt falling hopelessly in love with him.

With a jolt, she realized most eyes were turned in their direction. Flushing crimson, Sansa scanned the tent and noted that with the exception of her mother, most eyes were actually trained on Roose. But the smug look in Lady Stark’s eyes had her brow creasing with concern, and her husband’s soft words had her heart leaping into her throat as a shiver of fear raced down her spine and a protest pushed at her lips. “Certainly, Your Grace. We will depart at nightfall.”

“Very good, my lord,” her brother responded, before disbanding the council for the evening to dine. 

Sansa’s startled gaze flitted back to her husband’s as her purposefully ignored her, keeping a tight hold on her hand when she rose and pulling her back as the others began to trickle out into the setting sun. She shot him a questioning gaze, which he of course also ignored, keeping his hard face expressionless as he lightly tugged her in the direction of their tent, away from the others gathered for supper. 

Sansa tightened her jaw as a sinking feeling swept through her belly. He was leaving her once more, only this time she felt even more alone than before. 

Ser Royce shot her a comforting smile as he held open the flap of their tent, Roose’s hand at her back pushing her through the entryway. She took two steps forward before whipping back around, raising her brows with the unasked question written all over her face. 

“Raiders. Weren’t you paying attention, woman?” He asked coldly, already moving to remove his doublet and begin to slip on his chainmail. 

“But… You can’t leave now, Roose!” She pleaded softly, sad eyes watching as he dressed himself for war. 

He sighed, the weariness seeping into his body until his shoulders stooped and for an instant Sansa glimpsed his age, until he sucked in a breath and the brief weakness was gone. He threw his black furs over his shoulders and turned to stalk up to her, until there was barely an inch between them. “You will continue to attend the council meetings in my absence, Sansa,” he said firmly, angular face masked as he clamped a hand around her upper arm. “And you will pay attention,” he gritted through his teeth, making her eyes prick with unshed tears as she bowed her head in shame.

“Yes, my lord,” she said softly, not daring to raise her eyes. She heard him sigh once more, and then suddenly she was cradled against his chest, nose pressed into the thick furs as she breathed in his scent while he wrapped his arms around her.

“You will not be alone, Sansa,” he said quietly, voice rippling in through the curtain of her hair next to her ear. “Royce will be staying with you, and I am counting on you to learn all you can and represent House Bolton in my absence.”

She nodded thickly and swallowed down the lump in her throat, blinking back tears as she raised her eyes to his and peaked up from the furs. “I promise, Roose,” she whispered, nodding gravely. 

He rolled his eyes as his lips twitched in a tiny smile, flashing so quickly it was gone by the time she had registered its presence. “It is only raiders, silly woman,” he whispered, voice smooth as silk as it warmed her heart. “I will be back before you know it.” 

She smiled timidly before pressing in tightly to his chest once more. “I will miss you, Roose,” she whispered, raising her head once more to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

An odd expression passed over his face as he studied her carefully with narrowed eyes, roaming over her face as he cradled it in his hand. “You know, Sansa,” he murmured quietly. “I actually believe you will.” 

A wide grin split her face as he leaned in to press a firm kiss to her lips. “Remember, Sansa. The flayed men hold up the wolf when she needs strength; but she must lead them well.” 

She caught both his black-gloved hands in her own, pressing a soft kiss to each before stepping back and allowing him to pass by her and out of the tent. She sighed and swallowed back a fresh wave of tears as he slipped from her hands and into the night, the loneliness swallowing her whole. 

Waving away the maid who appeared a short time later with a tray of food, Sansa pushed off her gown, and slipped on one of her husband’s linen tunics, wrapping herself in his scent as she clung to his pillow and slipped into a dreamless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot-- woohoo! :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, because I just can't stay away from these two.

Sansa awoke to the gentle nudges of Ser Royce, momentarily disoriented until she whipped her head around and quickly realized that the sun was just beginning to lighten the darkness beyond the tent. She grumbled, burrowing back into the furs and waving him off, purposefully ignoring his chuckle as he dropped a slip of parchment next to her head on the pillow. One pale hand burst from the furs to quickly snatch the letter and pull it back under, and Royce had to bite back another chuckle as he slipped back out of the tent.

With a heavy sigh, Sansa opened the note, already having a disgruntled inkling of the contents she may find inside. Sure enough, she was not disappointed, and she took a twisted pleasure in already knowing Lord Bolton so well.

_Sansa,_

_Get up, lazy woman. Go to the council meeting, and more importantly, pay attention. Remember, Our Blades Are Sharp, but our minds and our tongues are sharper._

_Do not disappointment me. Do not disappoint House Bolton. Do not disappoint yourself._

_Roose_

Rolling her eyes at her husband’s attempt at a love note and stifling a snicker at the thought of him attempting to come up with poetry, she flung back the furs, called for Ser Royce to send for a maid, and started the day.

~*~

Dressed in her newest creation with the direwolves consisting of flayed men, Sansa swept gracefully into the war council tent, noting with smug satisfaction that she was among the first to arrive. 

“Sansa!” Robb smiled broadly, enveloping her in a surprised hug and waving for her to take Roose’s regular seat between the Greatjon and Lord Manderly, accepting the cup of watered wine as she picked up and nibbled on a piece of bread from the platter on the table. 

“My lady, I had not expected you to attend in your husband’s absence!” The Greatjon roared in her ear, in what only he would describe as a whisper, but she found quite alarming in the early morning hours.

Stifling back a giggle affixing a cool expression on her countenance, Sansa affording him a graceful smile. “It is for precisely that reason that I find myself here so early, my lord,” she replied, flushing pleasantly as she met his twinkling gaze. 

“And I am happy to hear it, my lady,” he whispered conspiratorially, wagging two thick caterpillar eyebrows as he turned his attention to the remainder of the council members as they entered the war tent and took their places. Sansa carefully ignored the narrowed gaze of her lady mother as she turned to greet Dacey Mormont, a decidedly interesting woman, indeed, who only recently returned from a long series of raids of her own against Lord Lannister’s forces.

“Lady Bolton, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she greeted her, flashing a cocky smile as she took her seat across the table. 

“The pleasure is mine, I am sure,” Sansa murmured, smiling freely as she felt the approving gaze of Ser Royce from where he stood guard beyond the open tent flap. Shooting her eyes to his, she caught his small nod before he turned back to observe the happenings of the camp as it came to life that morning.

The morning progressed without incident, and Sansa found that one could learn quite a lot if one observed the participants with even greater attention than one granted the words they spoke. For example, Sansa learned quite quickly that both Dacey Mormont and the Greatjon clearly thought her brother was a fool, despite their outward words of support. They shared many a look back and forth, and though they appeared nothing but respectful, the narrowing of eyes and uncomfortable shifting in seats when Robb said something that Sansa felt was particularly stupid was reflected by those two as well.

However, Lord Manderly, her own mother, and Lord Flint clearly thought her brother walked on water, and ignorantly encouraged him on in folly after folly, either too dimwitted or too naïve to see the potential blunders for what they truly were: incompetence, in a boy too lacking in sharpness or shrewdness to actually rule.

After one such exchange, in which Robb actually suggested they consider aligning with “King” Renly and House Baratheon against House Lannister (the folly of which Sansa couldn’t even begin to enumerate upon), a gentle question from Lord Umber showed her the Greatjon was greater at far more than just he appeared. “My King, if it is men you are in need of, could we not seek support from your Queen’s House?”

Queen Talisa had entered sometime later in the morning, and Sansa noted a tense stillness sweep through her frame before she straightened and a regretful smile graced her lips. “I fear I have yet to receive a reply from the ravens I have sent thus far, notifying my family of our union, Lord Umber,” she replied smoothly. 

The Greatjon hummed in disappointment next to her, sharing a look with Dacey Mormont, and with a glint in her eye Sansa recalled something her husband had mentioned in passing a few days ago, when discussing his correspondences with Ser Royce. “Your Grace,” she said quietly, careful to keep her expression blank and her eyes innocent as a does. “Who is it who oversees the ravens?” 

Robb frowned thoughtfully and nodded towards the Queen. “As we have no maester presently, Talisa oversees their caretakers, Sansa. Why, are you in need of sending correspondence?”

She smiled swiftly, being sure to keep the glint from her eyes as she replied. “Why yes, I was hoping to write to Ramsay, my King. I spoke with Lord Bolton and he agreed that I may provide Ramsay with guidance on the grounds of Winterfell and the running of the keep, as he had not previously had the opportunity to visit.” 

Robb nodded with approval, shooting a confused glance towards her mother, who was currently choking on her wine, before granting her a winning smile. “I think that is an excellent idea, Sansa. My Queen, please see to it that Sansa as access to a raven so that she may send her correspondence as soon as she is ready.” 

By now, Sansa was sure that few had missed the slight snarl in his Queen’s smile when she nodded at Sansa that she would comply. As Robb called for the council to break for a light repast before continuing later that afternoon, Sansa caught the eyes of the Greatjon and Dacey Mormont and hung back, allowing the others to leave before them.

Sansa started with surprise when the Greatjon’s booming voice came out as a whisper so soft, she had to crane her neck to hear. “A shame her letters have not been returned,” he whispered shrewdly, a disbelieving glint in his wide eyes. “I do hope your ladyship’s correspondence will not meet with the same fate.” He winked at her, sharing a quiet chuckle with her and Dacey Mormont as she strode out from the tent and strolled in the direction of the their tents, on the same side of camp as her own. 

“Thankfully, I believe Ser Royce will assist me to ensure my ravens do not return without reply,” Sansa said knowingly, shooting a glance over her shoulder at Royce before continuing on with an innocent smile. “How lovely the Queen is so involved with the workings of the council and the keeping of correspondence, is it not?”

Dacey Mormont’s eyebrow raised in agreement with a small smirk playing across her face, nodding at the Greatjon and then once again at her. “Indeed, Lady Bolton, how… _lovely_.” 

As Sansa turned in the direction of her tent, she had to bite back a smile. Perhaps, she could play the game, after all.

~*~

Two days later, bathed in blood as he swiped his sword cleanly through the remaining Lannister page’s head, Roose felt the weight of his age weigh heavily on his strong shoulders. Thirty Lannister supporters in all, sweeping through the countryside, and not one had escaped with his life.

A job well done, a victory for the Young Wolf, and yet, Roose found he oddly took no joy in it. While the thought of raining down death and destruction usually set his blood to racing and his cock to twitching, it now only left him- bored. Slaughtering men was fine and good, but no longer gave him the rush of strength and power his young self had craved so thoroughly.

No, he decided with a grim frown as he stalked towards his horse and nodded to his men to ride in the direction of home. Now, it was the moving of people and pieces, the plotting and planning to advance his House, that had his heart racing in his chest and his cock hardening in his breeches. 

Well, that and the insatiable little vixen who stole his furs and warmed his bed. 

Cock twitching further at the thought of being buried deep in that sweet little cunt as she came undone around him, Roose opted to forgo a wash in the stream, as he pushed his men further to ride hard through the night while the blood dried on his clothes and face. He could wash when he was dead. Tomorrow, he wanted to fuck his fiery wife. 

~*~

Late the next day, Sansa watched the sun set and the darkness rise in the sky beyond the open flap in the tent as she listened to Lord Manderly praise her brother for her husband’s successful raid against the Lannister raiders. “Another brilliant victory, my King!”

Sansa adopted the cold expression her husband wore so well, just barely fighting back the urge to roll her eyes as she noticed the distinct lack of praise or congratulations or even _thanks_ thrown in Roose’s direction. It was, after all, he who was successful here. Was it too much to ask that Robb share the glory when glory was due?

Apparently it was, for he blushed like a new bride and smiled widely as he waived off the praise and gestured for them to “drink up” in celebration of the win. Gods, he really was a well-meaning little fool.

Shooting a look at Dacey Mormont as she reached for her cup, Sansa nearly choked on her laughter as she met the teasing gaze of the lady warrior. Her mask must not be as good as Roose’s, as Dacey shot her a wink before raising her cup and toasting the glory of the King, the Greatjon booming his support in agreement. Raising her cup, Sansa missed his presence until he was striding into the tent.

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of her husband, black furs and mail glittering in the torchlight, swipes of blood across his brow as he knelt before his King and inclined his head towards the council members in greeting, studiously ignoring her gaze. Her cheeks flushed crimson as her eyes swept over his muscular frame, greedily drinking in the sight of his impressive stature and the obvious display of masculine victory in the blood of his enemies gracing his mail and brow. 

Sansa didn’t even hear the words he exchanged with her brother, didn’t listen to his report, didn’t listen to anything, actually. All she could do was gape like a fish and openly admire her husband. She noted when her smallclothes began to dampen and her nipples began to harden, and she wondered how long she’d have to wait until she could drag him back to their tent and greet his return properly.

The Greatjon nudged her, jerking her back to the present, and the waggle in his eyebrows and glint in his eye told her that she might as well have shouted her lust for all the world to see, as it was likely clearly painted all over her face. Sansa found she did not care, and raised an imperious eyebrow in response, the twinkle in her eye forcing him to choke back a laugh.

“We will retire for the evening in light of the victory, my lords. Go, and celebrate!” She heard her brother shout, sloshing the wine over the edge of his cup as he raised his hand in triumph. She barely even granted him a glance as she nodded and took her leave, chasing her husband’s broad back as he purposefully strode without a backward glance in the direction of the tent. 

The sound of Ser Royce’s laughter behind her did nothing to deter her, and he caught her arm as she sought to burst through the tent after her husband, holding her back gently. “Give him a moment, my lady, he only just returned.” 

Narrowing her eyes, Sansa raised her head haughtily, yanking her arm out of his grasp, ignoring the roll of his eyes as she sauntered into their tent, coming face to face with eyes that glittered more black than gray in the firelight as his hand clamped down hard on her forearm and he jerked her forward without a word, crushing his lips to hers.

Sansa’s head was swimming, her need for her husband overwhelming her thoughts as she wrapped her arms around his head and pressed her chest into the furs and dried blood and mail, clawing at him as she tried to get closer to the hardness and heat radiating off of him. He answered with a hoarse groan, his hands fisting in her skirts as he yanked them roughly up to her waist and shoved her smallclothes down to pool at her feet, before gripping her hips in an iron vice.

Without a word and without breaking his punishing assault of her lips, Roose lifted her into the air and spun her until she was seated on the edge of their desk, wood biting into her bare cheeks as he held her tight with one hand while the other undid his laces. And then he was sliding into her wetness, hard, slamming in to the hilt as he claimed her with a grunt and his fingers gripped her so tightly she was sure she would bruise.

With a cry of pleasure, Sansa wrapped her legs around his hips, arching her back to press her aching breasts against his mail as she held him tight while he slammed into her, his cock sliding out until just the tip was inside, and then racing in, plunging so deep she was sure she felt it graze her womb. She held him close, held on with the tips of her toes and the nails of her fingers as he thrust into her with abandon, slaking his need and her own as her screams came forth unbidden to light up the night. 

With a feral groan from him and a scream of his name from her they came as one, seed spurting into her clenching heat as she collapsed around him, holding on for dear life as she sought to remember how to even breathe as he leaned against her heavily and rested his forehead against her neck.

“Sansa,” he sighed, deft fingers kneading as he released his tight grip and sought to soothe what would surely be purple in the morning light.

“Roose,” she whispered in response, threading her fingers through his hair as she held him close and came down from the clouds. He turned his head and caught her lips in a slow kiss, before reluctantly withdrawing from her heat and settling her skirts, pulling back to call Royce to have the maids bring a tub and water for a bath. “I missed you, you know,” she whispered shyly, eyes watching greedily as he stripped layer after layer.

He ignored her while the maids brought in the tub and steaming water, and as the last one left he finally dropped the breeches that had remained, stepping gracefully into the tub, naked as his nameday in front of her. After closing his eyes and sighing wearily, he finally rested his head back against the lip of the tub and motioned for her to approach him. “Come, lady wife, and tell me of what you learned while I was away.”

With a shy smile Sansa slipped from her perch on the desk and approached her husband and his bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that? Plot AND smut! :) 
> 
> Happy Monday!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to share an awesome suggestion by thedarkeuphie, who graciously reads and comments on each chapter! Euphie suggested that the flow and arc of this story is reminiscent of Heathens by TwentyOne Pilots, and I couldn't agree more!! If you're interested, check it out! :) I played it on a loop as I wrote a majority of this chapter.

Sansa picked up the bar of lavender soap from the tray, only to turn around and face an imperious glower that had her giggling as she set it down and picked up the neutral scent soap. With a nod of approval Roose closed his eyes and settled back into the tub while she lathered up a cloth and began to gently wash the blood away from her husband’s long fingers. 

“Well?” He asked her, a slight annoyance creeping into his tone at having to prompt her twice. 

Sansa sighed, slowly working the cloth up and down and around each finger, as she thought back carefully and prepared her words for what, precisely, she wished to convey. “Robb needs more men to fight the Lannisters, and suggested aligning with “King” Renly,” she started, stifling a laugh at the choke of fury that led to her husband coughing into his bath.

Mumbling something suspiciously like ‘the Kingdom falls to pieces when I am away for less than a week’, he quickly ducked his face under the bath as she worked her way up his arm, before reemerging and settling back with a grumble. “I do hope he was dissuaded,” he said coldly, and Sansa bit back a smile as she nodded in agreement and continued.

“For now, my lord. But not by me. It was Lord Umber who presented a suggestion that led to an interesting conclusion.” 

His eyes narrowed and his irritation bloomed plainly on his cold face as his nostrils flared while she began to rub the cloth over his broad chest. “So I take it we march at first light?” He asked dryly, lips twitching when she laughed openly and leaned across to swipe the cloth over his left shoulder. 

“Actually, he suggested we simply ask the Queen’s House to send troops to fight, as it is now in theory their war as well,” she said slowly, eyes flickering to his before returning as she rose and swept around the back of the tub to better reach his left arm. 

Roose hummed in response, a gleam slipping into the corner of his eyes as he nodded for her to continue. “Well, she stepped out of that commitment by sharing that they had to even respond to her ravens notifying them of their union.”

He grunted, disdain dripping clearly off his countenance as he closed his eyes with a sigh while she worked the cloth over the fingers of his left hand, gently wiping away all the blood he had spilt over the past few days. “It should be no small matter to confirm whether any ravens were actually sent, I suppose,” he mused quietly, and his eyes shot open as Sansa chuckled and openly preened at him.

Raising an eyebrow, he bit back a smile as he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “She didn’t.” Sansa said simply, a smirk pulling those luscious pink lips as her eyes flashed with pride.

Sighing wearily, he rolled his eyes and gave her a stare prompting her to elaborate. “I learned she herself is in charge of the ravens, Roose. I am confident in pronouncing she never sent a one.” 

She watched his jaw clench as he chewed on that discovery, and couldn’t help but continue. “But we now have access to our own, which I’ve had Ser Royce set one of your men to monitoring.” She was gloating openly now, cheeks flushed as she swept behind him in a rustle of silk as she gently pushed him forward to work the cloth over his muscled back. 

“Alright, Sansa,” he sighed heavily, wearily noting that his wife seemed to enjoy giving him just enough to keep him hungry for more. “How did we come to have access to our own raven?”

He felt the auburn curls slide over his skin as she pressed her lips to the skin behind the shell of his ear, and he had to suppress a shiver when he felt the cloth dip around to massage into the lower rope of muscles on his abdomen. “I convinced Robb we needed one to communicate freely with Ramsay once he’s secured Winterfell, to help him with the running of the keep.” 

She heard him practically growl with approval as she nipped lightly the tip of his ear before sliding back to continue wiping the soap over his back, hungrily watching the ripples across his muscles as the tension drained from his body and into the steaming water. He caught her hand in a tight grasp as she began to work the cloth lower towards his hip, yanking it from her fingers and taking up the bathing himself. 

She sighed and pouted at being denied, and he rolled his eyes as she swept around to sit once more on her knees next to his bath, leaning her head on the lip as she watched him with soft eyes. “Anything else?” He grumbled, and she sighed as she walked her fingertips along the skin of his shoulder as she pursed her lips in thought.

“Yes. With whom have you aligned with on the council, Roose?” She asked quietly, and she saw his muscles jerk as his steel eyes flitted to hers in surprise. The muscle in his jaw was ticking once more as he finished wiping his legs, and she waited patiently, practically watching the cogs whirr in his mind as he considered his response.

The stilling of his arm told her he had decided, and she bit back a huff of impatience as she raised her head to watch him expectantly. His eyes were guarded when they met hers once more, and his words were measured and slow. “ _I_ have not aligned with anyone,” he said quietly, and she didn’t bother to hide the frown that pulled at her lips at that. “However, that does not mean that you cannot,” he allowed, and she lit up like a beacon as she leaned over eagerly to tell him of her thoughts.

He held up a hand, preparing to caution her once more, but a series of shouts from outside followed by Ser Royce’s yell brought him up short. “What is it?” He barked, rising quickly as Sansa handed him larger clothes to dry himself, fear lighting up in those deep blue eyes. 

As he yanked up a fresh pair of breeches, Ser Royce strode into the tent, alarm in his gray eyes as they flitted from Sansa before returning to his lord. “It is the King and Queen, my lord. It appears that wolf tried to attack them.” And before Roose could slip a tunic over his shoulders, Sansa was sprinting out into the direction of their tent, Ser Royce and Roose running along behind her. 

~*~

Roose had never actually _felt_ the emotion creeping through him as he tried to keep up with his wife while throwing his thick black furs over his shoulders. As the light of the torches surrounding his King and Queen’s tent lit up the distance, he saw that Lord Umber had a strong hand wrapped around his wife’s arm, holding her back from the snarling wolf restrained by chains and three guards, and the fear-stricken King and Queen watching it warily as they debated what to do.

It was clear in Roose’s mind, he hadn’t a flicker of doubt. They should kill the damn thing and be done with it.

Coming to rest next to his wife’s new ally, because he most certainly was already aware of the fact that she’d formed an alliance with the Great Oaf and the Lady Warrior, he practically yanked her arm out of his grasp and held her hand tightly in his own. “Sansa, they are fine,” he began, before the sharp look from the Greatjon brought him up short. 

Narrowing his eyes as they flitted between the two and a cold expression of fury settled over his stony face, he wondered just how close this little alliance had become. As he opened his mouth to press the issue, the words of his Queen brought him up short. “There is no use, my King,” she said sharply, the fear and the hatred coloring her foreign voice. “We must kill him.”

Roose was so startled by the cry of alarm ripping out of his wife that he nearly dropped her when she collapsed heavily into his arm, her hand coming up to claw at his fur collar as she pleaded with him, tears streaming down her lovely face. “ _Please, Roose, please do something_ ,” she begged him, and he realized with no small amount of confusion that she had run all this way because she was afraid for the _wolf_ , not for her brother.

He stared down at that sorrowful face as his mind ticked and whirred, while she pled and begged for him to intervene as her brother unsheathed his sword, a look of regret heavy on his bearded face. “ _Please, Roose_!” She practically yelled, and he flipped through the options layered like a stack of cards in his mind. By now, more than a few camp members had heard her pleading and her familiar use of his name in her crisis, and it would be all over camp by morning’s light, spreading with the gossip like wildfire. He could ignore her, show the gossips and the lords that his wolf wife held no sway over his cold heart, that he alone ruled his House and castle. He could reprimand her, punish her for her disobedience and her disturbing display of emotion and panic in front of the soldiers he wished to command. Or, he could do as she asked, and intervene. He could speak up and plead on her behalf, he could bend a little under her pleas, and he could show the camp that indeed, Lady Sansa Stark Bolton, the lady wolf, was more partner than prisoner with the cold Lord Bolton.

Tilting his head and clenching his jaw, he nearly missed when the Great Oaf came to her rescue. “My King,” the Greatjon roared, silencing the uproar in the blink of an eye and snapping Robb Stark away from his stride towards the restrained wolf. “Why did the wolf suddenly turn on you? Was it before or after you defended the Queen?”

With a snarl, Roose watched as his wife’s tear-stained, hopeful, heart-shaped little face turned towards the Great Oaf with a sigh maiden’s reserved for heroes, and her pleading eyes thanked him repeatedly before turning to observe her brother, hanging on his response. 

And then it occurred to him that perhaps, the Great Oaf wasn’t such an oaf, after all. The question was simplistically insightful, putting forth the idea that perhaps the wolf was betrayed when his King chose his bride over his childhood defender, called by his soldiers a gift from the gods. And then he realized that his little wife, who now gazed at the Great Oaf as if he hung the moon and the stars in the sky, had realized early on the shrewd intelligence behind the mask of jovial humor and rough manners Roose had discounted. And that thought had him snarling all the more. 

Roose did not hear the response Robb gave, but his eyes met the insistent glare and nod of the Great Oaf he steeled his jaw, narrowed his eyes, and called out quietly so his King leaned forward to hang onto his every word. “Perhaps, you will grant my wife the chance to calm the beast, my King,” he said coldly, studiously ignoring the hopeful gaze Sansa swung in his direction as she clutched to him fiercely, and studiously ignoring the flutter in his chest that gaze was causing. 

As Queen Talisa bit out her disapproval King Robb cut her off with a wave as he motioned for Sansa to come forward. Roose gripped her tightly, leading her through the throng until she was paces away from the restrained wolf. With a firm grasp of her chin he forced her gaze to meet his, and he ignored the way she now looked at him the way she looked at the Great Oaf moments before. “Be forewarned, wife. If the beast so much as looks at you askance, I will put his head on a pike and make you walk past it every morning for the next turn of the moon.” He said coldly, truth dripping from his dark words as she nodded wildly in agreement. And then she was slipping away from him, out of his grasp as the whole camp watched on with wonder.

~*~

Sansa approached Grey Wind with tears streaming down her face, her panic at reliving the horror of losing Lady steeling her nerves as she came to rest a foot from his heavy head. “You just wanted to protect your master, didn’t you, sweet boy,” she whispered, and the wolf whined almost in agreement as he lowered his massive head to kneel before her feet. 

“Smart wolf,” she heard someone who suspiciously sounded like the Greatjon mutter behind her.

She timidly reached her hand forward, and before she could blink he was pressing his head up into her hand as he stepped forward to nose into her chest, whining and rumbling in contentment as she ran her fingers through the coarse hair and thought back to how Lady loved when she scratched behind her ears. Her heart swelled when he gently licked her fingers, and then she was laughing as he nuzzled into her chest above her heart as she wound both hands through his fur and was transported back to a time when the summer was high and the wolves were pups and they were allowed to be children.

But the muttering of the Queen behind her snapped her back in an instant, and with no small amount of sadness Sansa turned to face the winter and the war and the fears once more, her hand wrapped protectively around Grey Wind’s neck as her eyes sought the only others that mattered to her anymore. 

Roose met her gaze steadily, and she saw something flicker in his gaze before his stance tightened and he turned to nod towards her brother. “My King, if you will allow it, House Bolton will take charge of the wolf.”

She closed her eyes at the sadness that welled in her chest at the thought of Robb losing Grey Wind, while her heart blossomed with even more affection for the cold man who warmed her more than the sun. _Thank you_ , she mouthed, as her brother agreed, ignoring the protests of his Queen. But when he stepped forward to say his goodbyes to the most loyal follower he’d ever commanded, Grey Wind turned his back and ignored the outstretched hand, burrowing further into Sansa’s chest.

Swallowing back a fresh wave of tears, she turned and led the wolf towards his new home.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this chapter got away from me, so it's a longer one.
> 
> I am seriously, seriously blown away by the support for this story! Thank you to everyone leaving comments, sharing ideas, and pushing me along. The feedback on the last chapter was overwhelming, and I hope that I can do you lovely readers justice as I continue.
> 
> This chapter has a bit of a lighter feel, with a little less plot and a little more character development, and I sincerely hope you enjoy.

She sighed with relief when she entered their tent, Grey Wind padding along silent as a shadow behind her, and saw that the tub and the water from Roose’s bath had been cleaned up. As Grey Wind came to rest behind her, she realized how small their little tent suddenly seemed with the presence of the massive direwolf now taking up residence. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth as it occurred to her how furious Roose was likely to be once he returned, but when Grey Wind licked her hand and nuzzled into her belly, all thoughts for her cold husband and his cold fury vanished into the night.

Tears pricked Sansa’s eyes as she thought back on the whirlwind of emotions and activities this past evening while she slipped her gown off her shoulders, and she had to swallow back the lump in her throat when she realized the risk Roose had taken in speaking on her behalf. While it was Lord Umber who intervened initially, Sansa knew where the thanks rely lay when it came down to it. She knew that her husband never would have been the first to speak out when she was acting so irrationally, especially in the middle of such a public crisis. And she was acting irrationally, she knew that, but she just couldn’t bear to see another direwolf slaughtered for protecting its master from those who wish harm, thoughts of Lady long ago sending her into a spiral of panic and desperation. And she’d given into it, she’d pleaded, panicked, screamed and thrown a fit like a child as her head had spun and her world had crashed down to center on that one little moment, where a King and Queen once again held a direwolf’s life in their hands. 

Removing her smallclothes and slipping into just her shift, Sansa made her way to the pallet she shared with her husband and slipped in between the furs, thoughts of Roose warming her heart and making her smile. No, he hadn’t caved directly, hadn’t run to her rescue like the Greatjon had. But he _had_ given in, in his own way, enough so that she had Grey Wind in the end. Enough so that he was still the aloof, strong leader of House Bolton. Enough so that he held firm to the fear he commanded with his men. Enough so that he gained a little respect, too. 

She sighed as Grey Wind climbed on the bed, turned in a circle and snuggled up in her arms, groaning as he stretched out and made himself comfortable. Her husband was a cold man, built of ice and steel, a man made of and made for the North. But beneath that thick blanket of cunning and indifference he wrapped around his shoulders each morning, she could almost see the little fissures of warmth peaking out to twinkle, just out of reach, sparkling so quickly that as you turned to look they had flashed and disappeared. Roose was a master at the game, a master at deception, and she had a hunch his greatest deception might just be with himself.

Because, try as he wanted to deny it, this evening showed her she knew better. Roose knew how to bend in just the right way so that to all others he was as immovable as a mountain, while to her, when he wanted to, he could be as flexible as twine. 

~*~

The slide of steel and the rumbling growl of the direwolf in her arms had all warm thoughts from the dream she was having flit out the tent flap and into the night. She jerked up to sit, one hand embedding into the thick fur at Grey Wind’s neck, the other shielding her eyes from the brightness of the torch her husband was wielding in one hand while he motioned with his sword with the other. 

“Roose? What’s wrong?” She mumbled sleepily, eyes frantically darting around the little tent as she searched for whatever intruder angered both beasts.

As he brought the torch up and settled it in a sconce she noted the harsh angles of the cold fury written across his face, and her heart raced in her chest when she realized that fury was directed towards Grey Wind beside her. He simply jerked his sword at him, jaw flexing and clenching as his eyes shot shards of ice and venom in Grey Wind’s direction as the wolf growled deeper in response, lips curling back in a snarl.

“Grey Wind, this is Roose,” she said calmly, petting the ruffles down on his back from where it had ridged at the threat. “We don’t growl at Roose, Grey Wind, we love him,” she said quietly, straining her ears to hear his reaction to that little sentiment as she settled the wolf and scratched his ears, delighted when the rumbling ceased and he crawled across the furs to gently sniff in Roose’s direction. She was equally delighted when she glanced over her shoulder and saw the stunned expression painted quite clearly all over his face, the sword now hanging limply by his side. 

Smiling to herself she gently reached out her hand, beckoning Roose closer as his jaw snapped shut and the hardness returned to sharpen his face as he stepped forward and allowed her to take his hand and gently place it before Grey Wind’s nose. “See,” she crooned to the direwolf, smiling wider as he gently sniffed Roose’s outstretched hand before nuzzling into his palm. “Good boy, Grey Wind. Roose is our protector, so we must listen to him and be good to him, yes?” At the sight of the timid lick of Roose’s fingers, she turned her face back up to his and noted that once again that mask had slipped while a look of uncomfortable bewilderment passed over his features. 

“I’m sorry he growled at you,” she said softly, blinking shyly at him when his startled gaze shot to her own before he jerked his hand away and his face closed back into a frown. 

“I will kill him if he threatens either of us ever again. Do you understand?” He said harshly, a scowl chasing away the lightness that had crept into his eyes, and she bit back a sigh as she nodded in agreement. “And he cannot sleep in our bed, Sansa.”

This time she did sigh, but she quickly slipped off of the pallet and pulled a few furs, arranging them for Grey Wind so he could curl up by the fire. She turned back to him with a smile, intending to thank him for all he had risked and done, but he was already stepping back out of the flap and into the night. 

Sighing heavily and rolling her eyes, she mumbled about kicking Grey Wind out when he wasn’t coming to bed anyways, but she resisted the urge to call him back and instead gathered up the furs and tucked herself back in, thoughts of the enigma she was married to dancing in her dreams.

~*~

Sansa awoke to the insistent nuzzling of the direwolf wrapped once more in her arms, only to turn and see Roose lying where Grey Wind should have been, wrapped up in the furs cushioned next to the fire. “Grey Wind,” she admonished him sharply, poking him in the nose as she used to Lady as she slipped from the bed and dressed for the council. “You must not take Roose’s place in the bed anymore, do you understand?”

The direwolf only panted, tongue lolling as he blinked lazily at her while she pulled on her gown and whispered to him of the trouble he was in when Roose woke up. Biting her lip, she turned to look at the man curled up like a babe beneath the bundle of furs, a little in awe of the fact that he hadn’t actually slit Grey Wind’s throat for kicking him out of his own bed when he’d returned. Hiding a smile, she turned and took up a piece of parchment, scribbling a note before she placed it with a soft kiss next to his head and slipped from their tent, Grey Wind and Ser Royce eyeing each other as they silently followed behind her while she made her way to the council.

~*~

Roose awoke with a growl of his own, thoughts of wrapping himself in that damn direwolf’s furs this night making him cruelly gleeful as he turned to see that both beast and lady had left him, lying here on the floor like some bloody servant while they’d traipsed about their morning. As he pushed up to sit and vowed he’d take that wolf’s pelt as soon as the sun went down, the crinkle of parchment had him pausing, and he raised his hand to hold up the note Sansa had left him to the light.

_Roose,_

_I’ve spoken with Grey Wind, and he will not be sleeping in our bed any longer, nor will he keep you from me ever again. Please, forgive him, the poor dear has been prisoner for so long since the Queen does not like him, and he is just overwhelmed at the love and attention he now receives with us._

_Now get moving, lazy man, and meet me at the council. To quote a wise man, “Do not disappoint House Bolton. Do not disappoint yourself.” I do not say “Do not disappoint me,” as I am so full with gratitude I am unable to imagine an instance in which that would occur._

_Yours,_

_Sansa_

Muttering about the silliness of women as he dressed for the day and stormed from the tent, he could imagine an infinite number of scenarios in which he would disappoint his wife, and not care one bit in the process. And what did the little fool mean, she’d talked with Grey Wind, as if he was a bloody rationale being and not the beast he was. What an insipid little thing she could be, her displays over the past twenty-four hours bringing what should have been ruin and shame, culminating instead in love and adoration, if the awed stares of the soldiers parting like the sea around him and bowing in his presence were any indication. And while he brought to mind all the reasons he should despise that woman and the things she’d forced upon him, the decisions she’d forced him to make, he couldn’t quite keep the small crinkle from the corner of his eye when he thought back to her words the night before, and the signature of her letter. _We love him_ , she’d told that damned direwolf. _Yours_ , she’d signed it. 

What in the fucking hell? What game was that woman playing with him?

Striding up to the war tent, Roose noted the direwolf and Ser Royce standing vigil just beyond the opening, Royce chattering like the beast was actually listening along, the beast’s tail wagging as soon as Roose came into view. Purposefully ignoring it and a beaming Royce, he stalked into the tent, slamming full force into the adoring gaze of his beautiful wife, beaming at him like he was the very sun. 

Scowling fiercely, eyes narrowed to slits, he practically stomped over to recline in the open seat across from her, next to Dacey Mormont. Yet as his eyes flicked back to hers, he noted Sansa was once more twinkling at him, a little star in the sea of darkness, calling him like a moth to the flame.

That ridiculous thought had him rolling his eyes and biting back bile in disgust. _What in the fucking hell?!_

~*~

Sansa watched Roose fidget and squirm, for once his cool composure absent as he drummed his fingers, watched everything like a hawk, and searched for daggers in every dark corner of every item on the agenda this day. 

The Greatjon mumbled a comment to her about a fidgety flayed man making even a dead man nervous that had her giggling and fighting back a full-blown bubble of laughter, her face turning red as her eyes averted everywhere but at the source of their amusement. As she turned to share another side comment with her companion, she practically felt Roose’s gaze burning into her face, making her flush and settle as she turned back to regard him openly, a brow raised in amusement at the ire poorly concealed in his eyes. 

But then, when Robb made yet another blundering suggestion, she was giggling once more, Roose’s disapproval forgotten on the breeze as she snickered at the comments mumbled by the man who was far, _far_ greater than what initially met the eye. 

A swift kick of a boot brought her startled gaze up to a clenched jaw and eyes flashing steel, and Sansa swallowed back her amusement as she affixed her cool mask once more and held it firmly in place for the remainder of the council. As Robb dismissed and invited them all to join him to feast the loveliness of his Queen, Sansa carefully placed her arm in Roose’s and allowed him to lead her stoically to their place at the end of the high table, once again seated next to the Greatjon. 

His arm was taut, body coiled tight, eyes flashing dangerously whenever she attempted to engage him in conversation, so as she wearily met with another wall of silence and seething anger, Sansa turned to engage Lord Umber, only to be held back by the sharp clench of a hand on her upper thigh. 

Turning her head, her progress was halted by the rumbling whisper into her ear as the hand slipped away from her thigh. “I see you and the Great Oaf have become quite close.” 

As she tried to tip her head to admonish him for the unkind, and clearly untrue, moniker, she was met once again with a sharp clench on her thigh, so tight it was close to bruising. Clenching her teeth, she settled for simply tilting her head down, shooting him her own whisper in response. “I thought I was allowed to choose my own allies, husband.” 

The pressure of his hand was removed, but before she could blink it was slipping in through a slit in her skirts she had no recollection of, sliding beneath the fabric to meet with the bare skin of her thigh. And while she was certain he had intended to be the one with all the cards, the one with the element surprise, it was _him_ biting back a groan when his fingers met no resistance of fabric, instead grazing softly on the curls in the junction between her thighs. 

Sansa’s eyes fluttered shut on a sigh as he lightly played and tugged, fingers roaming softly, teasingly along the curls and outer lips, not pressing in, not pushing further to where she was quickly dampening with want for this man. “Where are your smallclothes, Sansa?” He growled sharply into her ear, breath fluttering the curls as one long finger traced and teased the skin of her thighs, before his whole hand was pushing her legs wide, and her thoughts of the people around them were quickly forgotten as she sucked in a breath and bit back a sigh. 

His chair was scooting closer, and then his hand was slipping through her folds, his fingers gathering up the slickness as she whined out a moan and he bit back a groan in her ear. “Sansa?” He asked tightly, as his finger tap, tap, tapped, ever so lightly on that pearl of pleasure aching between her thighs.

She turned her head, tucking it into his shoulder as she breathed another sigh, arching and straining for _more_ , more friction, more contact, more of _him_. “Roose,” she breathed, elongating the vowels as he dipped one finger in to swirl among the arousal now dripping down to dampen the underside of her skirts.

“Yes, Sansa?” He growled, voice dipping so low she felt it pulsing with the ache between her legs, and then he was circling her, his fingers splitting into a v around her ache, skirting the sides but never quite touching where she desperately needed him.

“Smallclothes?” He bit out, clearly not as unaffected as he wished to be, and she hissed out his name in his ear as her legs started to shake and she had to bite down on his shoulder to stifle a moan. 

“Left them off,” she panted, hips thrusting, chasing those teasing fingers as they left her nub of pleasure and dipped in to slide into her core, arching and rubbing and twisting as they thrust in between her thighs. “For- _ahh_ \- you, as a surprise.” She finished, the tail end hissing into another moan of his name as her hand clamped down on the top of his thigh and she road his fingers, chased her pleasure, until suddenly they were yanked away, and she was left slick and desperate and _aching_ , thrusting blindly for a release she was so close to that was quickly falling away.

“I am the one who gives you pleasure, Sansa. I am the one who makes you ache. I am the one who makes you laugh.” He was growling, punctuating each statement with a cruel tap of his fingers against her spread open core, making her shake and hitch a breath and _ache_. 

But the end of that rant brought her up short, clearing the fog as she blinked away a bit of the lust to focus hazily on the warm steel eyes burning into her own. “You are not known for your humor, Roose,” she whispered softly, confusion creasing her brow until she saw his eyes dart over her shoulder, and suddenly the pieces were fitting together, the picture was forming, and her eyes were widening and a smile was splicing across her face as she leaned in to press a gently kiss to his cheek and whisper into his ear. “You are the one who gives me pleasure, Roose. You are the one who makes me wet and aching, with only a touch or a glance. You are the one I dream of each night, and the one I wake to each morning.”

His eyes were narrowed, his expression guarded as she pulled back to glance at his face, sweeping her eyes across the planes of the man who is so cold, so stoic, so solemn and cunning, and yet who makes her heart swell and her blood run hot in her veins. “You will not be the only one who makes me laugh, Roose.” She said calmly, devoid of apology or sympathy, not shying away from the fierce scowl turning his lips down. “Nor will you be the only one who makes me cry,” she continued, pleased with the pause that gave him, the curiosity gleaming in the corner of his eyes as he raised a brow and allowed her to continue. 

“But you are _mine_. My armor. My shield. And I am _yours_. Your wolf. Your _anything_ , if you but ask it of me.” She whispered, heart pounding as she saw the blankness steal over his skin, just beginning to wrinkle with the growth of a day’s stubble and the fine lines of age. And just as she began to lose hope, just as she feared she’d read it all wrong and bumbled into yet another mistake, ruining everything because Sandor was right and she was a stupid, stupid bird, his eyes were flashing, his fingers were returning, and then he was circling firmly to give her release, while she chased her pleasure and the waves crashed down and she bit the black leather on his shoulder and moaned his name into his furs as her heart soared into the sky.

Before she could come back down, his hand was slipping back out from her skirts, and he was pulling her to stand, a fierce expression silencing curious glances as he nearly dragged her from the table and back through the dark, Ser Royce and Grey Wind strolling along unconcerned behind. He flipped open the flap of the tent, shoving her roughly inside, and then his body was around her, his lips pressed into the curve of her neck, before he bit down roughly, nipping the X of the flayed man and growling _mine_ as she sighed.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all can thank (or blame) Rooseisloose for the feel of this chapter, because the expert suggestion of Glass Animal's Black Mambo resulted in this!! :)

Roose nipped and sucked and licked a trail of fire across the back of her neck, sweeping the tendrils of her hair over one thin shoulder as his fingers deftly undid the laces on the back of her gown. Sansa bit back a moan as one series of nips left a flayed man X directly on the pulse point under her ear, and she sagged back into the waiting chest of her husband as he pushed the silks of her gown down her frame, hands coming around her waist to gently lift her out of it before resettling her in front of him once more, her back to his chest, she naked and wanton where he was clothed and restrained. 

His fingers went to work while his lips and teeth played, caresses with the slightly calloused pads sending ripples of delight so soft they contrasted sharply to the nips that skimmed the border of pleasure and pain, stinging before they were chased away by a lapping tongue and another silky caress across the skin below. He worked his way down the back of one cream shoulder while his hands skimmed lower, across her fleshy behind and down the backs of her thighs, teasing feather-light touches that had her mind spinning as she questioned whether they’d ever really been there at all, before another nip and sweep of a tongue had her panting once more. 

She was alive with sensation, burning in places that begged for his touch, awash in the tides of pleasure rolling through her while her husband played with the line between want and need, whipping her into an aching frenzy. She heard groans and soft sighs, moans and whines echoing through the silks of the tent cocooning them, until the reverberations themselves were pulsing through her core while the trail of X’s painted across the curve of one hip to the side of one thigh. Sansa was swaying in the tidal waves of pleasure, her knees so shaky she thought they would break, her head spinning so quickly she thought she might swoon, and then those deft fingers were teasing across her belly, tracing lazy circles up towards the breasts heaving and flushed with need, nipples extended begging for sensation. Those fingers teased and played, while the nips came back up the arch of her other side, until they returned to the pulse point they started. She arched her back and pressed into his chest, grinding against the hardness pressing into her flesh as she pushed her chest forward into the fingers that teased, ever out of reach, hiding from where she needed them most. 

She worked herself over that hardness behind her, sliding her backside in a rhythm filled to the brim with sensation as she clenched the tops of her thighs, desperate for friction, desperate to _feel_. And then the palms were sweeping up her ribs, smoothing the ripples and flutters until they palmed her heavy breasts, thumb and forefinger tracing so lightly she was arching further, shoulders, lower back and thighs digging into the man as she pushed herself into his hands, begging and desperate moans drifting up to the gods in the familiar prayer of his name on her lips and her need on her tongue. Those fingers, those long, elegant answers to prayer, gently encircled each nipple, while the fronts of his thighs met with the backs of hers, and then he was leading her, nipple and step, nipple and step, until she was bent with a strong hand between her shoulder blades and an ache of protest, bent and sliding to crawl over the thick furs of their own little slice of heaven. 

The coarse fur mixed with soft wrought havoc on her sensitive nipples, and she was aching so fiercely she thought she may burst in tune with the pulse clenching her core, while she slid on her belly and arched her back and turned over her shoulder to stare hazily at her husband. 

He was removing his clothing, pace unhurried, eyes burning so bright they should have scorched her pale skin, while she licked her lips and arched her back and pushed her flesh into the air in wanton invitation, begging him to make her whole once more. With a growl and a flicker of something deeper in his eyes he pushed off his breeches, hard ripples of muscle glittering in the soft candlelight, and then he was climbing over top, skin sliding on skin, muscle meeting soft flesh, as he settled himself behind her, over top and around, surrounding her with his breath and his flesh and his strength and his scent, until it was only him and her as they came together under the silks and the stars on a bed of furs. One hand slipped underneath her thigh, splaying her wide as he pulled it up until her knee met her elbow and her slickness dampened his waiting hardness, pressing in deep until they were connected so entirely that she was not sure how they would ever not be one anymore. 

And then he was thrusting, twisting his hips, flexing his thighs, and she was arching, pressing her backside to his abdomen, pushing her nipples into the furs, reaching out with one flexed desperate hand to find something, anything to hold on to, while he worked over her with such languid abandon. That one hand fisted itself in the flesh of her pulled up thigh while the other braced in a fistful of auburn curls that glittered like fire, and then he was yanking her back so her nipples skimmed the surface while she sighed out her pleasure and burst into a thousand tiny pieces with a thousand tiny screams piercing his very soul.

As she danced among the clouds, writhing and shaking and clenching around him, his hips became stilted, his thrusting erratic, until he was grunting in her ear, head bowed as he whispered her name into the sweat on her neck and joined her in blissful abandon, collapsing and pushing her further into their den of lust and furs. 

~*~

Royce shot glares at those who passed by his Lord and Lady’s tent to closely, studiously ignoring the cries and moans that caused those stares as he crossed his arms and fought back a snicker. The whines of the direwolf next to him had him tilting his head down and reaching out to stay the wolf as it restlessly padded over to enter the tent. “Not now, Grey Wind,” he said firmly, once again bewildered but trying not to show it when the wolf turned its massive head and bowed it in understanding.

He came back over to their post, pushing his thick head into Royce’s waiting hand, whining as he strained his ears to listen to his masters groans and sighs. “Those are happy sounds, Grey Wind, but they will become quite murderous sounds if you go in there and interrupt them,” he chuckled, burying his fingers in the thick fur and smirking at the maids who were eyeing him with equal parts admiration and horror as they skittered by and drifted through the night.

A shout of Roose’s name pierced the night, and Grey Wind whined further, spinning in a circle restlessly as he turned and knocked Royce’s waiting hand with his head once more. He sighed, chuckling to himself, as he regarded the anxious animal next to him. “Never heard those sounds from your old masters, hmm?” He mused, not even bothering to fight back the sly smile as he scratched behind one ear while the direwolf practically _snorted_. Not for the first time, Royce had the distinct impression the animal truly did understand him, and while it was thoroughly unnerving, it was also highly entertaining, especially in this instant, brightening up what was generally a rather mundane task of guarding his Lord and Lady. 

The direwolf sighed heavily before settling once more back to his post next to Royce, and they glared in tandem at any who dared to slow their steps as they passed by the front of the tent. A time later, light giggles were heard drifting into the night, followed by what distinctly sounded like a _man’s_ quiet laughter echoing in response. Grey Wind turned to him with wide eyes, and Royce felt his eyebrows raise up clear to his hairline, his face a picture of amused horror as his gaze flitted between the direwolf and the tent. “Perhaps you should check on them, after all,” he murmured, and before he could blink, the wolf was padding over to slip through the front flap of the tent.

~*~

Sansa was splayed across Roose’s naked chest, auburn curls rippling over the white linens and heavy black furs he’d pulled up around them, one arm thrown over his chest while the other rested snuggly between his strong thighs. She was tracing the light hairs peppering his upper chest as he worked his fingers along her scalp, shifting amongst the curls, and the warm silence surrounding them had her sighing in sleepy pleasure. 

As she drew the outline of the direwolf with one nail on his chest, he tensed and drew in a heavy breath. “You are my wife, Sansa,” he said quietly, and she raised her eyebrows and fought back a chuckle at that odd pronouncement.

“I am well aware, Roose,” she responded with amusement, still playing with the hairs of his chest as she tilted her head on his shoulder to meet his steel gray eyes. 

He shot her a look that warned her he’d tolerate no nonsense, and she frowned as his eyes became guarded and he pushed on further. “You are my wife, and I will not share.” He finished coldly, purposefully inspecting the rafters of the tent rather than the lady twisted around him like a vine.

“I had not realized that was in question,” she said dryly, raising one thin eyebrow as she continued to watch his face close off and his eyes grow colder than snow. 

Finally, his head was tilting towards hers, and she found herself drowning when he let her in, let her climb right into the warm gray and swim around in the anger and jealousy and betrayal, and then she was sighing, leaning forward to press a tender kiss to those cold, firm lips. “What is it?” She asked softly, elegant hand reaching up to smooth out the lines of his forehead as he greedily searched her face.

“The Greatjon,” he began, but she cut him off with a laugh, biting it off as soon as the rage flew through his eyes and steeled his harsh chin.

“Roose,” she said quickly, desperately trying to be serious now when she saw the darkness seeping into those ice cold eyes, saw the closed off ire rippling over his face, but failing to hide the smile spreading over her lips. “In addition to the multitude of reasons that you would never believe that result in my affections for you, I also very much value my hearing, and am quite thankful I will not lose it due to a marriage to Lord Umber.” She finished in a teasing tone, a giggle bubbling out of her lips as she saw his twitch when she mentioned her hearing, and then she was wide eyed and staring when an answering chuckle quietly met her own. He was glancing at her through the sides of his eyes, fighting back a smile as she watched him in wonder, and then he was attempting to pull a serious face as he leaned over to blow out the candle next to his side. 

She heard the slide of silk, and turned over her shoulder to see Grey Wind padding in and directly up to their bed, sniffing as his solemn eyes looked from lord to lady, leaving Sansa giggling once more as she curled into Roose’s chest. “Over there,” he ordered, so firmly and seriously she was laughing again as she teasingly whispered into his ear when Grey Wind only cocked his head. 

“He is very intelligent, Roose. You must speak to him with respect, as you would one of your men,” she said gently, nodding in encouragement when he looked at her as if she were trying to make a fool of him. 

“Grey Wind,” he said calmly, this time devoid of any inflection or emotion. “Go to bed on the furs by the fire.” 

Sansa smiled wide in satisfaction when she watched the direwolf pad silently over to curl up onto his new bed, giggling as a serious of sighs and groans drifted out of him as he settled himself. She could practically _feel_ the roll of Roose’s eyes and his deadpan stare as he rolled over and wrapped his arms around her. “I see the need for dramatics is a family trait,” he said dryly, and then she was giggling once more as she pressed her face into his neck and sighed.

A few beats passed, and then she pulled out of the weight of his arms to settle back and look at him on the pillow, his eyes just barely lit by the embers of the fire. One imperious eyebrow raised in response and before she could think the words were tumbling out of her mouth in a series of hushed, rushed whispers. She told him all of it, the entire experience with Joffrey and Lady, how King Robert and Queen Cersei had her beloved Lady put to death, how her own father was the one to do it in the end. How it was all her fault because she thought she was doing what was right, but it only led to more heartache than she could ever imagine in the end. How when Ser Royce came to their tent the previous evening her mind had drifted away and then she was in that night once again, watching as a King and Queen sentenced another direwolf to die. 

She hadn’t even realized tears were streaming down her face as he watched her guardedly and listened silently, until one strong thumb was brushing them away before his hand slipped into the hair behind her neck as he pulled her back into his chest. “Hush now, Sansa,” he soothed her, as she wept thick tears and clung to his back, holding onto him like a lifeline in the storm of emotions rolling through her thin frame. He held one hand, tracing her knuckles with those circles she liked, while the other rubbed gently up and down across her bare back, until her sobs were stifled and she was hiccupping softly into the hairs of his chest. 

“Thank you for bringing him to me, Roose,” she whispered, voice breaking as a fresh wave of tears threatened when he sighed heavily and threw his other arm back across her shoulders.

“Say no more on the matter, Sansa.” He said quietly in response, both hands now sweeping over her back as she nodded into his neck. He pulled back slightly and tipped her chin up to meet his heavy gaze, and she watched as his jaw ticked and clenched before he swiftly nodded and rolled her over, so she was pressed back to front as he enclosed her warmly and leaned down to whisper gently into her ear. “You are not alone. The flayed man is the wolf’s armor, remember?” He said softly, strong arms wrapped around her, the physical manifestation of the weight of that sentiment as he whispered into her ear. “That includes all the Bolton men, Ser Royce, and even Grey Wind now, I suppose,” he said quietly, tightening his arms a little further as he rested his head behind hers on the pillows. 

“And it includes me,” he murmured, so softly she would wonder in the morning whether she’d really heard it at all.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning- some of this could be considered dubious consent, though it is consensual. If this is uncomfortable for you, please stop reading as soon as Sansa is undressed, and skip to the last two sentences at the end of the chapter.

Sansa awoke wrapped in furs, sated and warm despite the chill in the air and the empty space next to her pillow on the bed. She sighed, fighting back a smile as she sleepily raised her head, blinking against the light filtering into the tent to note that morning had broken long ago, and Roose had left her and Grey Wind to sleep in. A note was perched on the pillow beside her, and she snatched a hand out greedily to snap it up and devour its contents.

_Sansa,_

_Ramsay has taken Winterfell. I will return to you this afternoon to provide you with details. Do not join us today._

_Roose_

A trickle of unease ran through her thin shoulders as she read the letter for a third time, and she couldn’t help but wonder why not only was she not needed, she was frankly told to stay away. Fighting against the flip in her stomach and the sensation of dread washing through her, she raised herself determinedly and called Royce to send for a handmaiden so she may start her day.

After dressing and breaking her fast, Sansa decided to attack some of the sewing she’d neglected since she’d begun to spend her days in the council meetings. Several hours later, with a new gown freshly embroidered with the sigil she’d created out of the flayed men and the direwolf around the sleeves and scooping neckline, Sansa glanced about in boredom for something new to do. She was impatient for the news Bran and Rickon and Winterfell, and even more impatient to learn what _details_ her husband had not seen fit to share with her before the council.

Sighing in exasperation and realizing that no amount of wishing was going to make the time pass faster, her eye caught Grey Wind perched next to the roaring fire, and a slow grin spread across her pale face as she caught the glimmer of an idea.

~*~

Night had long since fallen by the time Roose returned to their tent, and she could tell immediately by his fierce expression that he was in a foul temper. Swallowing down her inhibitions and putting on a wide smile, Sansa greeted him merrily from where she reclined in their chair next to the fire and a wagging Grey Wind, freshly done up in the new collar she’d made for him out of some of Roose’s old black riding leathers. She’d embroidered it with blood red threads in the flayed man direwolf, and thought he looked rather dashing displaying the sigils of both his old and new house in such refined fashion. He seemed to agree, as he was practically preening as he bumped his nose into Roose’s waiting hand and attempted to beg some affection.

Watching as her husband sighed wearily and granted the direwolf several scratches before removing his furs and doublet, she found herself slightly put out that Grey Wind had received more of a “hello” than she had. He’d barely even glanced at the new collar, and hadn’t paused for a moment to inspect it like she’d hope he would. There was a surprise there that she felt quite clever over, and she was on pins and needles waiting for him to find it.

Fighting back the irritation that had begun to sour her welcoming smile, Sansa pushed those thoughts from her mind and determinedly affixed Roose with her most apt expression of attendance. “I missed your company today, my lord. How was the council?”

His eyes flashed with annoyance when he glanced over his shoulder from his desk towards her in his chair, before he finally turned fully to face her, reclining back to rest his hips on the edge of the desk. His arms were folded across his chest, and in the light of the fire Sansa thought he actually looked rather severe with the cold expression he wore this moment. With a chill down her spine, she wondered if she was truly glimpsing the man she’d heard only whispers and warnings of from her mother and others about the camp.

“As I mentioned in my note, Ramsay has taken Winterfell.” His words were measured, without inflection, but Sansa granted him a happy smile and flashed a look of gratitude as she nodded.

“I am aware, and I am infinitely grateful to him, as I’m sure my brother and mother are. How are Bran and Rickon and the others?” she said kindly, her stomach flipping over at the odd glint that had entered his eyes before his expression closed off once more, his mask slamming down until the angles on his face stood out sharp as steel. 

Perhaps it was the stony tone that sent shivers down her spine; perhaps it was the look of cold indifference painted across his face; or perhaps it was just the unconcerned way his shoulder shrugged as he finished that left her blinking owlishly for several moments as his words processed and bounced around in her mind. “Bran and Rickon are dead. The Greyjoys burned their bodies, and they were beyond recognition, so Ramsay was forced to cut them down and slayed all there alive excepting Theon Greyjoy himself, who is now prisoner at Winterfell.”

Her jaw dropped, and she was tempted to actually _laugh_ , as if this were some cruel joke and he was going to wink and then inform her that all was well, the keep was in fine order, and she could depart for a visit on the morrow. But he wasn’t joking, not at all, and she knew as her belly swooped and bile rose in her throat and tears clouded her vision that he as entirely serious, and he absolutely _did not care_. She gaped like a fish, mouth closing and opening, until she felt a cold nose and warm muzzle press into the hand that was resting lax on her lap. She fisted a hand into Grey Wind’s hair, holding on for dear life as she glanced across the two feet that suddenly felt like two oceans, into the eyes of a man who only last night had promised her his armor, and who now looked down his nose with more cold indifference than she’d ever thought possible. “B-but, I don’t understand,” she whispered, choking back the tears and blinking rapidly as she gazed up at him with doe eyes swimming with grief, the threat of a fit of panic on the near horizon now. “What- why? Why would he _do_ that?” Her voice had risen to an almost comical height, high and thin and breaking as the coldness swept through her.

And then she was watching her father die, watching his head roll off of the chopping block to bounce along the wooden floor, while Ser Ilyn Payne wiped the blade with a raggedy cloth with a twisted smile of glee. “Why would he do that?!” She was shouting now, yanking hard on Grey Wind’s fur as he burrowed deeper into her side, his big head resting on her lap. 

Tears were streaming down her face, her heart was breaking on her sleeve, and she was gazing at Roose with something that was desperately close to _begging_ , needing him to hold her close, needing him to rub her back and run his fingers through her hair, needing him to make it _alright_.

But Roose Bolton was not that man, not for her, maybe not for anyone. He shrugged one shoulder, eyes glittering with shards of ice, arms crossed in a grip so tight she hoped he fucking _choked_ on the force of it. “It matters not. Now, should our good King fall and fail to produce an heir, you will be heir to the North.”

The panic swept over her then, ripped through her like the undercurrent of the tide, pulling her under the ocean of grief, choking her with its intensity, until she was screaming at him and tears were staining her dress and snot was running from her nose while she held on so tight to Grey Wind’s fur she nearly ripped it from his skin. And still, frozen as stone, cold as the North, he only reclined against his desk, arms crossed, watching her with what she rapidly began to interpret may be nearer disgust than indifference. 

He let her have her fit, let her cry, let her scream, let her rise from her chair and nearly trip on the furs that slipped from her lap to pool at her feet. He let her hate him. But still, he did not crack, did not break, did not _try_. 

As the tears started to slow and the numbness stilled the flow and straightened her spine, Sansa allowed herself to wipe her eyes and look at her husband clearly once more. He was more immovable than she’d ever seen him. More closed, more distant, more uncaring that she would have thought possible before this moment. 

He was Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort. The man her mother warned her of. The man she found she knew very little of, after all.

She turned her back on him then, gesturing wearily to the series of hooks and buttons. “Please assist me, my lord.” Her cold tone matched the cold glint in his eyes she’d stared at all throughout her fit, and she found she was too weary to fear the repercussions of that behavior. Deft fingers began to push and pull, and before long the gown was at her feet, and she was naked as her nameday, her back to her husband. One such finger gently traced the trail of X’s. She jerked away with such ferocity she had the satisfaction of glimpsing the pure shock that shook his features before rage and ice cold fury replaced it. “ _I did not ask you to touch me_ ,” she hissed out, uncaring of the glimmer in his eyes and the snarl curl his lip as he advanced on her while she stood still and firm in the middle of silks and lace. 

“ _I do not need your permission_ ,” he whispered fiercely, voice so low and dangerous even Grey Wind paused before whining next to the fire. And then he was on her, hands gripping so tight she would have bruises as he took hold of her forearms and pushed her roughly onto the bed. He unlaced his breeches and removed his hardened cock, not even bothering to remove his clothing as he advanced on her while she crawled back one foot with each step he took. 

He caught hold of both of her feet, spreading her wide with a glint in his eyes that made her feel as if he would devour her whole. And in spite of her hatred, in spite of her grief, she found herself growing damp all the same, wetness slicking between her folds to drip down to her thighs as his gaze swept up with a look of triumph to meet her eyes. 

He was hard, cold, unyielding as he jerked her feet up around his waist and slammed into her with no preparation, no warning at all, thrusting until he was filled to the hilt, so hard she grunted with the effort as she felt her walls clench around him all the same. Tears pricked her eyes as she felt her hips rise of their own volition to meet his punishing pace, hard and fast and so deep she felt he’d choke out the very air she sucked in to breathe, her traitorous self slickening him further with each thrust, her traitorous walls clamping down around him each time just to keep him there, keep him inside, keep him _home_. And then she was sobbing, crying in anger, crying in pleasure, as she came undone around him, her pleasure sweeping through her so dramatically she had now soaked even the tops of _his_ breeches and thighs as he came into her with a grunt, growl and sigh that sounded suspiciously like _Sansa_ when his lips pressed into an X at her neck, and her traitorous arms wrapped around him to hold him close. 

He breathed into her neck, listened to her sobbing as her tears flowed freely and drenched his cheek where he lay, his cock spurting the after effects of his seed before finally stilling completely. Still she cried, fury burning bright in her eyes when she bit back a whimper as he removed himself from within and above her, stepping back to grab a washcloth before wiping them both clean. Then he laced up his breeches, threw off his tunic, and slipped in beside her, nestling into their furs like he knew he belonged.

She rolled on her back, her fury practically _choking_ her, and she fought to steady her breathing as he rolled with her and threw an arm around her waist, pulling her back and close into his chest. “ _I hate you_ ,” she hissed out, breaking into another sob as she pushed her face into her pillow and tried to stem the tide of tears.

He sighed, the arm around her flexing, before nosing into the hair around her ears. “If only that were true, Sansa,” he whispered quietly, pulling her tighter so she was fit snugly against him. “Then, this would not be so hard.” 

She fell into a fitful sleep, images of Boltons flaying Starks keeping her restless throughout the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! Please do not hate me!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter, but one that I think couldn't be split. Our poor little lord and lady.

Roose awoke in a cold fury when he realized not only had he out-slept his wife, but she had actually _left_ him alone in their bed. A quick sweep of the tent told him the beast had followed his lady, and based on the bright warm sunlight illuminating the room he was actually late, for the first time in his life, for the council meeting. He sighed wearily as he quickly dressed himself and strode from the tent purposefully in the direction of the King’s court. 

The sight of Royce and Grey Wind cavorting in front of the silk tent told him his wife must have taken it upon herself to attend the council _without_ him, and he felt a mixture of fear at what havoc she might have wrought and pride that she was bold enough to do it regardless of the face of his certain anger. As he flexed his jaw and attempted to breathe in a steadying breath through flared nostrils, he glanced back towards the pair as he approached and was met with barely restrained anger shining bright in the eyes of Ser Royce.

How _interesting_. The little vixen already had her claws in his most loyal man. _Of course she did_ , he thought with a sneer. Roose ordinarily would have brushed right past him, but Royce must have been in quite the temper because he actually marched several steps forward to cut him off before he could sneak by. 

“You _idiot_. What did you do?” He whispered in quiet fury, anger radiating off of him in waves.

Leveling him with his coldest stare, Roose had to flex his hands to restrain from outright pummeling him for his disorder. “That is not your concern.” He replied coldly, purposefully ignoring the slight quiver of unease Royce’s words had wrought in his abdominal region. 

Royce sighed so heavily Roose was left wondering whether he truly did carry the world on his shoulders, and he pinched his nose as he affixed Roose with a look of barely controlled disgust. “When I warned you that you needed to treat your lady colder so that she did not plummet over the cliff from charming into target, I thought it was obvious that I meant in _public_.” 

Roose raised one eyebrow, shifting his feet and feeling distinctly as if he were being scolded once more by his lesson master after that time he’d been caught whipping the boy who’d answered a question before him. And then he recalled that _he_ was the lord, and in this instance _Royce_ was the boy, and most definitely _not_ the master. 

“Move.” He put all the coldness he had in him into the chilling stare and barely restrained ire that caused his quiet tone to tremble, something that usually sent men quaking in retreat, but in this instance did nothing but lead to another leer of disgust from the man who quite clearly had turned traitor and decided to take up the banners of his wife.

“You will regret this, Roose. You will regret it, and I may not be able to help you fix it.” He warned gravelly, stepping aside to allow his lord to pass into the tent yonder. “Nor will I want to, I suspect,” he heard whispered coldly behind him, as he patted Grey Wind on the head and made his way into the council. 

Roose paused at the entrance, granting his King a respectful nod and bow before sweeping his eyes in search of his lady. With a flare of his nostrils, he realized that she had apparently chosen to sit as far away from him as was possible this morning, clear on the other side of the tent, and though she granted him a warm and welcoming smile, it came nowhere near to reaching her pretty blue eyes.

Pretty blue eyes? _Seven hells_. 

As he listened to his King wax poetic on the virtues of taking the Rock and reaping vengeance on the Lannisters, he casually reclined next to the Great Oaf and his Lady Warrior, both of whom shot him curious glances that he carefully ignored. They were his wife’s allies, not his. 

His wife. She was presently watching her brother pace and nodding as if she were truly listening and were in fact in agreement with what he pronounced. Her pale face and cold ocean blue eyes were the only indication that something was not quite right, yet she was regal as a Queen where she perched in her chair, with her graceful fingers twined elegantly before her in her lap. 

_Graceful_ fingers? _Elegant_? Who was waxing poetic now? _Seven bloody hells_. 

The previous evening most certainly had not gone as planned. He’d woken with the ravens when Royce had roused him and relayed the brief message of the sacking of Winterfell, scrawling a note and leaving it for his wife before he stormed off to the council. Based on the concern in Royce’s tone Roose had suspected the news was not all sunshine and roses, and he’d, as it turned out, appropriately demanded Sansa not leave their tent until he was able to return and inform her of all he had learned. 

Upon hearing of the death of her two youngest sons, Lady Stark had flown into a fit so violent it had taken half of the King’s guard to restrain and remove her from the tent. The young wolf had paled, pallor turning gray, but he did not break as Roose had anticipated, and he was begrudgingly impressed in spite of himself at the clear-minded way King Robb approached the remainder of the council meeting. 

As he had marched from the tent back towards his wife later that evening, he filled Royce in on his way, learning that the fit Lady Stark had caused had rightfully disturbed no small number of the soldiers who’d witnessed it, and her unhinged state had spread like wildfire through the rest of the camp. Men were now wondering whether the young wolf allowed his mother too much influence in his rule, and whispers of unfit leadership were easier to fan to flame than a brushfire. 

The North was ripe for the taking, and Roose intended to pluck it from the boy’s grasp before he even realized he was vulnerable.

Royce had then informed Roose of the whispers of his relationship with his lady, and the apparent influence she held over him, based on their public behaviors and the way he seemed to account for and consider her wants and wishes. Although Bolton men had been at work minimizing the rumors and turning them back to the incompetency of the Lady Stark, Royce was fearful of Sansa’s safety should any attempt to look for a weakness in Lord Bolton’s icey armor. He’d advised Roose to tread lightly from now on, and to ensure that the Lady in question was aware of the threats and able to defend against them, beyond Roose, Royce, and of course the direwolf.

So he’d stalked into his tent, cautious and restrained, and subsequently broke his wife’s heart into a thousand pieces. 

He’d intended to break the news and comfort her as he’d done similarly, taking her hand, perhaps pulling her close, offering a warm embrace and a warmer kiss. But then he’d seen the sigils she’d embroidered on the collar around Grey Wind, he’d seen the hope and brightness and laughter in her eyes, and it was impossible for him to ignore the flutter in his chest as her pretty hair caught the firelight and her pretty lips begged him for a kiss.

Royce’s words had echoed in his ears, his father’s warning on the downfall of letting a woman rule your emotions joining in to beat like a drum, until all he could do was cross his arms to restrain himself from reaching out to her as he pierced her happiness and drove her into a fit of despair at the loss of her brothers. His chest had clenched quite uncomfortably in the face of her tears and wails, and he’d shifted from pity to anger in the blink of an eye. How _dare_ she make him feel _bad_ that he was now closer than ever to sweeping the North right out from under the wolves? How _dare_ she make him feel anything at all?!

In his irritation, he’d blurted the only thing he could think of to stem the tide of her incessant string pulling, and he’d informed her exactly where they stood now that the other male Starks were out of the way. First, she’d looked as if he’d slapped her- a look of shock so profound even he questioned for a moment whether he a palm had actually accompanied his harsh words. And then the shock had morphed into a rage so acute he was uncertain whether _she_ was going to slap _him_. 

So he’d squeezed his arms tighter, letting her rage seep into his bones until he was worked into such a fury he was uncertain whether it was wise to remain in the tent with the siren screaming and sobbing before him. Just as he’d prepared to steal out into the night and unleash his temper on some poor soldier, she’d withered before him, turning and quietly asking him to undo her gown.

He should have refused.

He did not.

Instead, he’d nearly tore the laces and buttons in his attempt to get it off of her, resolving to look but not touch, as she was quite clearly in no mood for amorous propositions. 

Until he saw that she had once more neglected to wear smallclothes. At which point he should have marched himself directly from his tent before he reached out and touched what was his but still very much just hers alone.

He should have left her untouched.

He did not.

Rather, he’d allowed his hand to trace the trail of flayed men decorating her delicious spine, watching with a primal satisfaction as bumps alighted on her lithe frame in response. He would have stopped there though, would still have left the tent and looked for a victim far from his lady wife.

Until she’d snapped at him, rage and fire brimming brightly in her eyes, stark contrast to the tear-stained face that had paled below, lips bared back in nearly a snarl. At which point, he should have most _definitely_ removed himself immediately. 

But the Lord of the Dreadfort did not ignore a slight, and in that instant he wanted what was _his_. She was _his_ wife, _his_ wolf, _his_ lady. _His_ to pleasure, _his_ to please, _his_ to take when he wanted.

It was until he was spreading her legs that he realized he had forced her to the bed, and _still_ he had paused and prepared to remove himself from her presence. He would not _force_ himself on his own wife. He had not forced himself on anyone since the miller’s wife, and he would most certainly not do so now.

But then the heady scent of her arousal washed over him, and a glance between her thighs revealed the dampness slickening her folds and coating the tops of her thighs, and then he was lost, watching her with triumph has he pounded into her with a fierceness he hadn’t allowed to control him since that incidence that had begotten Ramsay so long ago.

But this time was far, far different than back then, _deliciously_ so. Because his pretty little wife was not the miller’s wife, and despite her best intentions, she very much welcomed his advances, hips rising to meet him thrust for thrust, while tears of dismay rolled down her pretty face. And when she gave herself over to the pleasure of it all, she came with a ferocity that had him blinking back blackness that threatened to overtake him when he joined her in her release, actually calling out her _name_.

She’d wept, rolling away from him in their bed, and when he’d followed her over and pulled her close she’d struggled and cried out her hatred of him. He’d had that unnamed uncomfortable sensation roll through the pit of his abdomen at those words, but he’d heard them for the falsehood they were, and responded with that in mind. 

Blinking out of his reverie, he noted the coldness in her gaze as she watched him across the table, and he wondered at how far he’d fallen in her graces in the matter of an evening. 

And then he wondered why he fucking _cared. Seven bloody fucking hells._

~*~

She _hated_ him. Watching him there, wheels turning in that mind of his, eyes warming and cooling with the discussion and whatever was rolling through his mind, angles on his face changing with each expression that only gave a glimmer into how he truly felt on the matter. He looked cold as ice, hard as stone, and so fucking delectable she wanted to eat him for lunch.

Gods _damn_ that man. 

He had been so _cold_. So _mean_. So very _Bolton_ that she’d screamed and cried and poked and prodded and _still_ he had not given an inch. After her fit had left her, she’d only wanted to collapse on the furs in exhaustion, and had asked for his assistance in removing her gown, not wanting to waste time waiting for a maid.

She wondered, if she hadn’t made that error in judgment, whether she’d be quite so furious with him now? She had not wanted anything close to intimacy after the harsh words and harsher manner he’d treated her with, and yet as she lay back on their furs with her thighs spread wide she’d become wet for him like a common whore. And when he’d taken her, she’d felt a release so strong she was left in the morning bruised and battered yet aching for more.

She _hated_ that man.

So she’d left him alone in their bed, a small smile of triumph on her face as she dressed in the most Stark clothing she still owned, and led an ignorant Grey Wind and a bewildered Ser Royce to the council. 

She was so sure that she’d be able to treat him with the coldness he’d shown her when he chose to grace them with his presence that morning, but when his gray eyes met hers it sent her heart fluttering traitorously in her breast, and her thighs clenched once more at the thought of the pleasure he’d brought her to last night.

She scoffed in disgust, blushing when a few eyes turned her direction, as she was ripped from her thoughts and thrust back into the end of the council meeting.

She _hated_ that man.

If only her heart would believe her.

“Lord Bolton, can I trust you to treat with the Frey’s? If we are to move on the Rock, then we need their men.”

That brought her up short, and she shot a murderous glance in Roose’s direction as he nodded calmly and murmured his assent. Clearing her throat, Sansa gave Robb her sweetest smile as she blinked and questioned him gently. “My King, forgive me. But as you are King in the _North_ , I do not understand why you would need to take a holding in the _West_.”

A glint entered the Greatjon’s eyes as he glanced between her and Roose, and she purposefully kept her expression blank and her eyes warm as she trained them firmly back on her brother. He chuckled to himself and shook his head with amusement, rolling his eyes as he turned towards her husband, who’d cleared his throat for attention. “Please forgive my wife,” he said quietly, his tone so cold and his gaze so sharp Sansa had to fight back the sneer threatening to curl her upper lip. “I would be happy to explain it to her this evening, Your Grace.” 

Robb shook his head and let out a small laugh, turning back to Sansa. “It is quite simple, really. As Tywin Lannister opposes my reign, I must assert myself and take what he holds most dear, similar to how he took our father from us. This is _justice_ , Sansa.” The conviction in his tone slightly mollified her disgust for her husband, but she could not help but press a little further.

She recalled the note Roose had received quite clearly, and was not sure which side she was truly on at this moment.

“I wonder- no, that is too impertinent of me,” she begged off sweetly, smiling shyly to goad him into asking her to continue.

“What is it, Sansa?” He took the bait so easily, it was almost amusing if it weren’t so alarming.

“Perhaps our mother should be the one to treat with Lord Frey? They do have a history, if I recall correctly.” 

If looks could kill, she was fairly certain Roose would have already flayed her alive.

Robb paused in thought, before nodding and smiling wide. “I do believe that’s true, very good Sansa. I will ask mother of it over dinner.”

And with that, the council was adjourned, and Sansa left under the curious glances of Dacey Mormont and the Greatjon, and the baleful reproach from her lord husband.

She did _not_ care, she scolded herself. She _hated_ that man.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the longest chapter yet, and I'm not even sorry about it anymore. :D
> 
> War songs for our lord and his lady this chapter: Sansa is beating her drum to White Flag by Joseph, while Roose is contemplating flaying everything in sight to the tune of Arsonist’s Lullabye by Hozier. For your added amusement, I also listened to Shawn Mendes’ Stitches for Roose, and though the lyrics seemed relevant, I couldn’t write his character with a straight face with it playing! ☺ Meanwhile, at the end of this chapter Grey Wind watched them with a boom box on his shoulders playing Lay Me Down by Sam Smith. ☺

Sansa motioned for Dacey Mormont to join her off to the side outside of the council tent, and led her in the direction of her own camp and away from the Bolton men and the daggers her husband was shooting into her back. Once they were safely ensconced in Dacey’s own tent, Sansa turned to face her questioning eyes with an anxious smile.

“I am honored to spend more time in your presence, Lady Bolton, but to what do I owe the pleasure?” Dacey asked with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. 

“Please call me Sansa in private, if you would.”

Dacey nodded firmly with a wide smile. “Sansa, it is. Please call me Dacey always, as I shudder when I hear Lady Mormont.”

Sansa snorted with laughter and smiled wide, nodding in agreement. Now that the formalities were out of the way, Sansa new she needed to get out the reason for her visit before she let her anxieties overrule her good sense and lead her to walking right back out with her request unasked. Knowing Dacey had neither the time nor the inclination to mince words, she decided to be as blunt as possible. “I need to know how to defend myself, in the event I am unable rely on my husband or his men.”

Dacey watched her shrewdly, eyes narrowing in thought as she pursed her lips and tilted her head. “You would also have your sworn shield,” she said with a smile and a jerk of her head towards the direwolf currently sniffing his way through the tent.

Sansa chuckled and nodded before becoming serious once more. “Yes, but even he may not always be around to protect me when I need it. And there is something very… powerful, about knowing I’d be able to protect myself, should it come to it,” Sansa finished breathlessly, eyes bright with excitement.

“Should it come to it,” Dacey said drily, one brow flickering before she treated Sansa to another grin. “Alright, Sansa, it would be my honor. What did you have in mind?”

Several hours later, Sansa felt droplets of sweat roll down her back beneath her gown, and her hair was mussed and falling in loose curls that had slipped from her braid, but she was smiling wider than she thought she had in her entire life. Her last flick of her wrist had sent her dagger up to meet the unguarded flesh of Dacey’s neck, resulting in a tiny nick that barely scratched the surface, and yet made the point all the same. 

They’d tried various weapons initially as Dacey assessed Sansa’s strength and competence, and quickly decided a thin dagger that she could strap to her thigh and reach through a slit in her skirts was the best and most effective option available. The dagger was small enough so the slits would be unnoticeable and identical to the one Roose had sliced in her gown at the high table, yet the blade was long and sharp enough to truly do some damage if necessary. Dacey had given her a leather strap that went around her thigh seemed complicated but was actually quite simple once she got the hang of it, and she was now able to slip her hand into her skirts and slip her dagger out and up to Dacey’s neck in practically the blink of an eye.

Dacey was smiling widely, very much pleased as Sansa practically beamed up at her with pride. “Very good, Sansa!” 

Flushing as she ungracefully wiped the sweat and stray strands of hair from her brow, Sansa took a few steps back and noted the darkness that now hung over the tent. “I suppose I should make my way back to my tent, I think I’ll dine there tonight.” 

Dacey nodded, smiling ruefully as she reached around Sansa to hold open the flap of the tent as Sansa fixed her skirts before following her out, Grey Wind padding along softly behind. “I wish I had that luxury, but I fear I am expected this evening.”

Sansa smiled as they reached where their path’s split, and nearly gushed with gratitude as she impulsively gave Dacey a hug in thanks. “I cannot say how much this means to me. Thank you for today!”

Dacey awkwardly patted her back and flashed her a grin as they pulled apart. “It was my pleasure, my lady,” she said with a wink. “I only hope you can spot the difference between who you need to protect yourself from, and who needs protection from you.” With that bewildering comment and another wink as Sansa’s brow creased in confusion, Dacey strode of towards the feast, while Sansa turned and picked her way back towards her tent, Grey Wind and two Bolton guards behind her. 

As she approached she saw Ser Royce standing guard out front, and he greeted her with a raised eyebrow and a slight frown, stepping forward and into her path before she could pass him. “Ser Royce?” She called in question, perturbed by his intrusion.

He grimaced and shifted his stance, looking over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t overheard, before turning back to her with a small smile. “Lady Sansa, I had hoped to have a word with you.”

She’d been outright ignoring him since she burst from the tent this morning in a cold fury, and suddenly felt bad for how she’d treated him. “Of course,” she said with an apologetic grin, a grin she noted he did not return.

He hedged a bit, shifting once more, before she gestured impatiently and raised her eyebrows in an attempt to push him to get on with it. Huffing out a breath, he shook his head and allowed the words to spill forth unfiltered. “I do not know what is going on with you and Roose, but please be careful, Lady Sansa.” She raised a brow at his use of Roose’s given name with no title, but nodded for him to continue. “Roose is… Ahem, how do I put this?” He paused once more, glancing again over his shoulder, before piercing her with a burning look in his dark gray eyes. “Roose does not do well with _feelings_ , my lady, and I fear my words to him yesterday may have steered him off course last evening.” 

“You told him to- to-“ she broke off with a blush, but soldiered on before she lost her nerve. “You told him to… _take me_ , after informing me of the death of my brothers?” She finished, voice raising in alarm, as she watched him with reproachful and disbelieving eyes.

He’d blanched at that, and rolled his eyes skyward as he muttered _Seven hells, that man is an idiot_ , before shaking his head firmly and starting again. “I- ahem… No, my lady. I… I most certainly did not,” he blustered, before swallowing deeply and finding the nerve to finish what he’d started. “I warned him there were whispers that you may be in danger because if his apparent affection for you, and that you and he needed to be careful in public from now on.”

She felt her face fall as her heart clenched almost painfully at his noting their _apparent affection_ , and she blinked back tears as she tried and failed to school her features into a careful mask of indifference. “Well, you need not worry, Ser Royce,” she said coldly, stepping around him and reaching for the flap of the tent. “Roose would have to have a heart to give affection.”

Sweeping into the tent, she heard Ser Royce’s final words to her retreating back echo in to swirl in her thoughts and haunt her breaking heart, as a fresh wave of tears began to roll down her pale cheeks. “Apologies, my lady. I had thought you were helping him find it.”

With tears rolling down her cheeks and her lips quivering with emotion, Sansa lifted her eyes and slammed face to face with the blistering glare of her irate husband, seated proud and erect behind his broad desk. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart clenched tightly as she saw the alarm flit through his features before it was covered by a look of cool indifference. 

He opened his mouth to say something but apparently thought better of it, because before he could get a word out it snapped shut with a resounding click, and he jerked his head towards the covered plate resting on a small table next to the chair by the fire. Flicking her eyes back towards his once more, she saw that he had bent his head back to his work, and was furiously scribbling on parchment. Her eyes swept to the chair beneath him, and she had to choke back a laugh as she saw it was not a chair at all, but rather the little stool the maids sometimes used when cleaning, that they had kept in the corner of the tent. 

He had left the chair she always sat in, sometimes with him, sometimes alone, waiting patiently with folded furs next to the fire, and instead was sitting as dignified as a King on his throne on a three-legged stool that barely supported him.

_I had thought you were helping him find it._

Gods _damn_ this man, she thought as her heart beat fast in her breast as she sat daintily in the chair and began to pick at her meal. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as Grey Wind padded in and went straight up to his new lord, bumping his knee with his muzzle in a request for affection. Without even a blink, Roose dropped one hand down to run it through Grey Wind’s fur, fingering the collar she’d made him before returning back up to hold the parchment still and finish his work. 

_I had thought you were helping him find it._

If so, what was _he_ helping _her_ find?

~*~

Roose had every intention of beating his wife to within an inch of her life for her brazen disregard for him in front of the council earlier that day. He had marched himself straight back to their tent, glaring furiously as he watched her peel of with Dacey Mormont in the direction of the Mormont faction, and had thought that only the hands of the gods could stay his hand in his vengeance. 

That little minx had “innocently” asked her question of her brother, flipping his plot on its head, and he’d been forced to choke back his growing alarm when he saw King Robb reconsider before finally pressing on, although with an altogether less appealing messenger. It would be so much _easier_ if he were able to treat with Lord Frey directly, but that was no matter. Roose had eyes and ears embedded in each of the Houses, and was prepared to pass his note with one travelling with Lady Stark accordingly, so that the plan moved forward.

He had spent _weeks_ carefully steering the young wolf in this direction, planting little seeds that would in turn sprout into the realization that he needed the Frey’s to finish the war, and finally, _finally_ , his plan was coming to fruition. Despite the very sly interference of his wife, who was far too clever for her own good, in his estimation.

Finish the war, he would. Though certainly not in the manner the boy anticipated.

As he was finishing his note to Lord Frey and contemplating whether he would actually be able to stomach harming a hair on his pretty wife’s little head, she’d burst into their tent with eyes wild, hair and clothing in disarray, and tears streaming down her beautiful face. He knew his eyes had widened in alarm as he swept his gaze over her, and he’d felt any fury vanish in an instant at the thought of something happening to her, wanting to _murder_ whoever put that heartbroken look on his wife’s face.

Until he had the uncomfortable sensation, as she continued to stare at him and weep silently, that it was _him_ who was responsible. Shifting and attempting to hold onto his anger, and carefully ignoring the odd little voice inside him urging him to reach out to her, he’d nodded towards her tray of supper, and returned to his letter to Lord Frey. 

Petting the head of the direwolf in his lap, and also ignoring the weary and weeping gaze of his wife, he finished his missive, sighing heavily as he rolled his shoulders where they’d started to ache from his uncomfortable hunch on the stool. 

_The stool_ , he thought with a scowl of disgust. Yet another indication that where Sansa was concerned, any threats were idle musings, as he would never be able to carry through with it. Like a lovelorn squire, he’d actually passed by _his_ chair, _his chair_ , because he couldn’t bear the thought of sitting in it when it was most certainly no longer _his_ chair at all, but hers. Or maybe _theirs_.

He growled at his own stupidity. Nothing was _theirs_. He was the lord. He was in charge, and he’d shown her that yesterday, with his news of her brothers, and with his taking her, when _he_ wanted. 

And then he sighed with disgust. Because as he’d had that thought, his eyes had swept to the woman daintily nibbling on her supper in their chair, and he found he wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his lap and have her nibble on something far more appealing.

Her eyes shot to his as she licked the bit of cheese off the tip of her fingers, and he swallowed as he found himself grow uncomfortably hard in his tightly laced breeches. 

~*~

Sansa had felt his eyes on her, and as she finished with the slice of cheese she’d been enjoying she licked the crumbs of the tip of her finger, shooting another glance in his direction. 

The lust warming up those steel gray eyes had her sucking in a sharp breath, and she felt herself dampening in response. _No_ , she told herself sternly, unable to look away from the gray orbs glittering in the firelight. She would most certainly not forgive him for yesterday. She _hated_ him, right? 

He was mean, and cold, and all of the other terrible things she’d thought of over the past half hour as she’d tried not to speak to him or ask about his thoughts from the council meeting earlier. Or ask her punishment, which she most certainly knew was coming. 

She would _not_ become a wanton tavern wench just because her _husband_ was aroused. It was no matter to her.

No matter… that snapped her back with a jolt, and any pangs of hunger, for food or otherwise, withered away at the thought of his words last night. He’d said the death of her brothers was _no matter_. And then he’d _taken_ her, forced himself on her, forced her to _enjoy_ it in spite of herself.

Before she could call it back, that one little word was tumbling out of her mouth in question. “Why?” She heard herself ask, so softly it forced _him_ to lean forward in his chair to listen.

She watched his jaw flex as his eyes narrowed to slits, and she could tell he was struggling to control his desire, though she was not entirely certain what, exactly, he was desiring. “What, exactly, are you asking me, Sansa?” He said softly, voice tight with restraint.

She gaped like a fish, mouth opening and closing, as she tried to determine what she actually was asking him. Why is it no matter? No, she knew the answer to that. It was no matter because it benefited him, and he clearly was moving forward with his plan with Lord Frey, if today’s council was any indication. 

Why had he taken her against her will? That was certainly a painful incident, though by the look on his face now she thought she had an inkling of the answer. Because he wanted to. And if she were being entirely honest with herself, despite how unwelcome his advances were initially, she was not actually as unwilling of a partner as she wished to believe.

“Why don’t you care?” She whispered, knowing the instant it left her lips that _that_ was what had truly enraged her yesterday, and what had led her to foiling, or so she thought, his plan to meet with Lord Frey. Why did he deliver the death of her brothers the way he’d deliver the morning’s weather? Why did he not stroke her palm or hold her hand or hold her close? Why did he just stand there, arms crossed, face unreadable, as she’d broken into a thousand little pieces right in front of him? 

Whatever he thought she was going to ask him, that was most certainly not it, and she watched as his eyes widened like he’d been stabbed and the muscles of his jaw flexed and tensed. His fists were holding onto the edge of the desk in a grip so tight it turned them white, and his body was so tightly coiled she feared the thing may snap in his grasp. 

As timidly as she had approached Grey Wind several nights before, Sansa rose from her seat, and stepped towards the beast that was her husband. Hand outstretched, arm extending, body leaning, she stepped right up to the side of the desk, and gently closed a palm around one shaking fist, taking the thing in her own. 

Her touch seemed to snap something within him, and in a flash he had risen to stand and hover over her, the stool kicked behind him as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in for a searing kiss that had her heart pounding in her chest and her vision swimming, hazy with the desire that pooled in the apex between her thighs. She sank into him, thoughts floating out of her mind to dance on the breeze, and she moaned into his mouth as his tongue swept in to curl around her own, beckoning it forward. 

As she curled hers back and reached up to grip the lapels of his doublet, she felt him withdraw, snapping up the parchment on his desk and stepping away, leaving cold air and miles of confusion in his wake, as his heat and his unsaid words stalked around the desk and out of the tent, out into the darkness of the night. 

Sansa blinked hazily, spinning to watch his broad back as he retreated, her mind a jumble of thoughts and emotions, while her lust was tempered with the chilly night air. Swallowing heavily, she slipped out of her gown and into a shift, before climbing to wrap herself up in furs on their bed. Tears threatened to spill when she thought of all that had happened in the past day between her and her lord, and the tide of emotions and conflicting feelings made her suddenly thankful he’d put distance between them, though she was furious he hadn’t answered her question.

She was furious, and yet, with a sickening flip of her stomach, she suddenly realized with crystal clarity what he’d helped her find, with his cold manner, his reserve, his lack of heart that she doubted she’d ever help him find.

Anger. He’d found her _anger_. And he’d made her _feel it_. She was angry with him, angry with the gods for the circumstances they’d dealt, angry with Theon, angry with her mother, angry with Robb, angry with Cersei and Joffrey and Tywin Lannister. She was _angry_. He’d pushed her past her self-pity and grief and pushed her into an emotion that she could actually channel forward. 

He’d made her _angry_. Her anger could make her _powerful_. Her anger could make her _strong_. 

She’d come to him a broken bird; he’d forced her to learn to fly.


	22. Chapter 22

Roose strode in a blind rage out of his tent, no purpose in mind other than to get as far away from _her_ as was humanly possible. What in the _flaying fuck_ was that little- that- “Fuck!” He grunted, earning a few curious and slightly terrified glances in his direction from the soldiers he’d been passing by.

He couldn’t even _curse_ her without fucking _feeling_ some way about it. A strong hand clamped down on top of his shoulder, bringing him up short and making him suddenly aware of the fact that he had marched right out of his tent into the cold night without even grabbing his fur cloak. He jerked around and reached for his sword, nearly drawing it in an irate fury, until he came nose to nose with gray eyes trying and failing to hide their amusement as the hand removed itself from his shoulder to hold up his cloak.

“What do you want?” Roose snarled at Royce, eyes blazing as he begrudgingly accepted the cloak and shrugged it over his shoulders. He was not _cold_. Men made of ice and steel did not get _cold_. He was simply putting on the cloak because it was already available to him.

“I did not want to face your wife’s wrath for allowing you to catch a chill when the fire of your temper no longer warmed you,” Royce replied wryly, the slight not going unnoticed and causing Roose’s nostrils to flare and his fists to clench and shake.

“You fear my _wife’s_ temper more than you fear mine?” He said softly, silken tone dripping with hints of steel. 

Swallowing back a grin, Royce bowed his head and took two steps back. “Certainly not, Lord Bolton,” he replied, unable to mask the ironic and mocking tone his voice had taken on. 

As Roose opened his mouth to order fifty lashes to _remind_ him who was really in charge here, the booming voice of the Greatjon had him nearly starling at the intrusion. “There you are, Lord Bolton! We’ve had a raven, and the King wishes us back in his tent.” 

Rolling his eyes, Roose shot Royce a glare before stalking off in the direction of the tent. Could the boy handle nothing without calling on every gods damned man in camp for direction?

“This better be good,” he grumbled as he caught up with the Greatjon, marching with him in the direction of the tent. 

It wasn’t until he was seated inside several moments later that he realized even his subconscious had bent to Sansa’s will, and he was now referring even in his mind to Lord Umber as the Greatjon rather than the Great Oaf.

 _Seven bloody fucking flaying hells._ He could not wait to kill something.

~*~

Several hours later, with not a wink of sleep, Roose found himself seated on his warhorse and riding for Harrenhal at his King’s side, the army flanked out behind them. It was but a day’s ride from their previous position, and the young wolf wished to retake it by nightfall, and use it as his post to plot the downfall of Tywin Lannister.

Roose shifted in his saddle and rolled his eyes. The games children play.

He wondered idly if he should have woken and readied Sansa himself, but he’d thought better of it when it had initially occurred to him, and instead he’d directed Ser Royce in his direction and made his way to ready his men. He doubted very strongly she’d have welcomed his intrusion with open arms, if his previous behavior and her reactions were any indication.

She may actually _hate_ him, he realized with an odd sensation bubbling in his stomach. He hadn’t believed it, even when she’d sobbed it into his arms, and had told her so accordingly. But when she attempted to derail his efforts in the council, and then flew into his tent like a mad fairy with tears streaming down her face and her accusing eyes, he’d begun to wonder whether maybe it held a grain of truth.

He certainly wouldn’t blame her, if she did. He’d allowed her to fall into a bitter pit of grief and overwhelming despair, and rather than offer her a helping hand, he’d simply dumped dirt in and begun to cover her grave. He saw that now, after several peaceful hours riding atop his horse, desperately trying to ignore the ache in his back from sitting on that fucking stool. Gods, the very thought of that fucking stool had him scowling and contemplating any excuse possible to flay something away from his King’s watchful eye. 

His thoughts drifted back to Sansa, as they seemed wont to do when he was not strong enough to strangle them with an iron fist. He could just see her, little pink petal tongue darting out to lick the tip of her elegant lithe finger, stormy blue eyes blinking at him widely while his cock hardened almost to a point of pain. He’d been visualizing all the more delightful things she could be doing with that tongue, all the other things he’d like for her to lick, long and slow strokes before her lips would follow, closing in tight, eyes still blinking up at him beneath black sooty lashes, and then…

And then, she’d asked him _why_. 

The question jolted him out of his fantasy and landed him back in the land of the living, where his wife possibly actually hated him, and where in all likelihood she would never want to do anything with her tongue as it related to him ever again. He’d been overcome with a rage so acute he’d had to hold onto the edges of the desk, and when he glanced at her and saw the tears swimming in her eyes, he’d wanted nothing more than to fuck her into oblivion until she forgot why she was even sad in the first place.

But he was a man, not some young buck who confused lust and love, and so he’d applied every faculty in his possession to acknowledging and responding to her question. He’d run through the scenarios as she pondered her response, considering all the different _whys_ she might be asking him, until the one that had never even popped into his mind had tumbled out of those rosy red lips. _Why don’t you care?_

That one little question jerked him back forty years, and in the blink of an eye he was a young boy watching as his father strangled his mother for giving birth to yet another babe who could not survive the night. She was still on her birthing bed, having sent for Roose to warn him to hide before his father was made aware, and he’d barely had time to duck behind the curtains before his father was throwing the door wide and striding him to slap his wife so hard across the face he’d burst a blood vessel in her eye. 

Roose had gasped, but no one had heard him, because his father was now closing his fist tight around his mother’s throat, choking off the air that she breathed, choking the life out of her as Roose looked on in horror, watching as his mother clawed and gasped and begged and pleaded, while her lips turned blue and her eyes nearly popped out of her skull. 

He’d released her in time, but just barely. And while the handprint turned an ugly shade of red before his very eyes across his mother’s throat, she’d choked out, voice scratchy from the permanent damage he’d just dealt her windpipe, the one question that snapped something inside his father’s careful mask of fury. _Why don’t you care?_ She’d asked him, tears streaming down her lovely face, now marred with the print of several hands across her face and throat. _Why don’t you care about me?_ She’d croaked out once more, before collapsing into a puddle of rasping screams and steady tears on the white linen sheets of her bed that were quickly dripping with crimson.

She’d died later that night, still in a heap on the bed, as Roose hid behind the curtains and watched with horror.

_Why don’t you care?_

As he choked back the memories that he’d buried when he was just a boy, stuffing behind a cool mask of indifference and a tightly controlled anger, he’d felt a soft hand gather his in it’s own, tugging him out of the darkness and back into the present soft light of the tent he shared with his wife.

He’d snapped, rising up to crush her in his embrace in an instant, his lips hungry for the comfort she could provide, his arms desperate to hang onto whatever warmth could be found in her timid embrace. Her moans were what broke through the haze in the end, and with a jolt of alarm he realized he was yet again assaulting his wife as he tried to keep his demons at bay, leashed on tight restraints where they weren’t able to rear back out to harm her. 

He’d snatched up his letter to Lord Frey and stole out into the night, shoving it into Ser Royce’s chest with a sharp command before stalking off in an attempt to just _breathe._

Several minutes later he was snarling at Royce for interfering, and several minutes after _that_ he was listening to the young wolf’s plans for Harrenhal. And now, here he was, back aching because of that bloody stool, cock hard because of his bloody wife, thoughts an utter _mess_ , reflecting the utter mess that had spun out of his world of tight restraint and tighter control.

He sighed wearily, sweeping his cold gaze on the smoke rising in the distance atop the trees. He was too old for messes.

~*~

The castle was in ruins, as it turned out, all inhabitants slain except for a Maester Qyburn, an odd man that made even Roose’s skin crawl uncomfortably. As his King and Queen tended to the maester’s wounds, Roose found himself in charge of settling the host and ensuring what rooms could be salvaged were prepared for the night. He was presently seated in what was left of the great hall, Grey Wind’s head in his lap, while the men feasted and the few ladies flirted and danced.

With the exception of his wife, who had requested a tray in the room he’d had prepared for her, from Ser Royce. The only person she was now speaking to, apparently. 

As far as Roose understood it, she’d risen without a qualm or complaint when told the camp was going to move. She’d simply washed, dressed, refused to ride in the Queen’s compartments, and then sat astride a mount Roose had purchased but yet to gift to her and road in silence between the Greatjon and Dacey Mormont. Ser Royce said she’d smiled and nodded along with the playful banner, but she’d in general adopted the severe mask he himself wore when on campaign, and sat as high and proud as you please in her saddle, the direwolf padding behind her. The horse she did not yet realized was her own was a beautiful dapple gray mare, one of the few not skittish of the direwolf, calm enough for Sansa to ride comfortably and yet feisty enough to hold her own should they be attacked. She was a proud horse for a proud lady, and the sight of her as she’d ridden into the keep several hours after he had arrived, erect and draped in Bolton colors with the thick white fur he’d given her, had made something shift uncomfortably in his chest. 

The direwolf in question nuzzled lazily in his lap, and with a snort of agreement he found himself once more petting the beast, his fingers tracing lazily over the black collar Sansa had embroidered for him, with her clever little sigil of direwolves and flayed men. Roose wondered whether she’d adorn any new gowns with it, and found himself very much wishing she would.

What a fool he was.

Scoffing at his pointless musings, he traced his finger over an odd little catch of thread on the end of one fold of the leather, noting the bumps and ridges that he hadn’t been able to see previously. He followed the trail around and found it was not mirrored on the other end of the tie.

 _Interesting._

Leaning down for a closer inspection, Grey Wind decided at that moment to shake his massive head, causing Roose to accidentally clasp the string and pull.

His jaw clenched in shock as a little corner of the leather fold loosened, revealing a folded slip of parchment had been slid inside. Pulling it out with a frown, he glanced to be sure no one was watching, before beginning to read.

_Roose,_

_You are presently at the council discussing a raven regarding Winterfell, and in my loneliness I devised this little contraption for us. Think back- how long did it take you to find it? I am either very cross with you for not noticing for this long, or I am very pleased you found it so soon._

_As you’ve already discovered how to open the enclosure, I’ll simply instruct you with how to shut it. Simply place your missive inside the leather, and then thread the knotted string through the loop on the end, pulling tight, but not so tight the string will break. Grey Wind has been trained to only allow you or I to touch the collar, so our notes to each other are relatively secure. I tested it on Ser Royce, and nearly collapsed into a fit when he retreated his hand in horror as Grey Wind’s hackles rose and he attempted to remove the offending fingers that had come close to their target._

_Are you impressed with your wife, Roose? I admit, I feel quite clever for developing this method of communication for us, so please let me down gently if you are not amused. I do so strive to make you proud._

_I hear your footsteps approaching and must cut this short and tuck it in before the secret is ruined. I can scarcely sit still in my impatience for you to return! I am anxious to hear of news of Winterfell, and cannot wait to be united with Bran and Rickon. I am anxious to be in your arms once more, and cannot wait to unite with you, as well._

_Always Yours,_

_Sansa_

He read the note four times in total, each time feeling the rolling of his stomach and the bile in his throat rise more acutely. Without a thought for the consequences, or for all that was troubled between them, Roose shut the collar and pushed back from the table, marching out the door and sprinting up the stairs in the direction of his wife. 

He burst through the door without a knock, much to the amusement of a snickering Ser Royce, startling her from where she’d stood at the window in naught but her shift. Kicking the door shut in Ser Royce’s smug face, _the bastard_ , he walked across the room towards her like a lion on the prowl. 

~*~

Sansa had jumped with alarm when the door to her chamber burst open, spinning around quickly and reaching a palm to her chest to steady her racing heart. Her eyes widened when she noted the wild look in Roose’s eyes as he kicked the door closed, stalking up to her until there was less than a handbreadth between them. Still holding her palm to her chest, Sansa could only blink into those familiar eyes, now molten in the firelight as he slowly raised his closed fist up before her face.

Scanning her eyes down the note she’d hidden in Grey Wind’s collar, Sansa felt herself blushing in embarrassment and anger. It had taken him this long to find it? “What. Is. This?” He ground out, eyes alternating between narrowing and widening in an alarmingly unsettling manner, his fist nearly shaking with restraint where it clutched the parchment.

She opened and shut her mouth several times before raising her head high and squaring her shoulders. How dare he march into her chambers and flaunt the last warm thoughts she’d had of him in front of her in this manner? “A note,” she said primly, an brow raised with disdain. “I had thought that obvious, _my lord_.” She drew it out, emphasizing the use of his title rather than his familiar name.

Something seemed to nearly pulse in the grey of his eyes, though his face was the familiar angular mask, and she sucked in a breath when she watched something nearly crack in his façade. His eyes dropped down to her lips, and just as she raised her hands to push him away from her, he was wrapping his arms around her and crushing her to his chest, his lips crashing down on hers with the desperation of a man starved.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day! I'm on a roll, folks...

Sansa’s head was swimming in a pool of pleasure, filled with the desperate kisses of the man wound around her tighter than a spring. His lips were moving so ferociously that their teeth clacked together with each swipe of his tongue, and he had one hand fisted through the fine auburn curls at the base of her skull, while the other was around her waist so far he nearly reached the other side, crushing her chest into his. Her mind was blissfully blank, and all she could do was try to hold on with two tight fists in the leather shoulders of his doublet, as she raised herself on her tiptoes and fought with his mouth and tongue to steal back the very air that she breathed. He was relentless, a tidal wave of lips and tongue and teeth that had her clinging to him and desperately trying to give as good as she got. Just as the pressure in her lungs began to feel so tight she worried she may faint, he yanked his head back with a gasp, their lips bursting apart with an audible _pop_. 

She blinked hazily as she trailed her fingers over the black leather and gazed into his stormy gray eyes. He was so fierce, this man. All angular lines, strong jaw, aquiline nose. But something was nagging at the corner of her mind, like an itch calling out for her to scratch it, and she had the uncomfortable sensation that she was missing something when his lips came down to nibble along the silk skin of her jaw. 

He trailed kisses down to the slope of her neck, a series of playful nips and licks causing her to collapse even further into his chest as she moaned in delight, becoming nearly boneless in his arms. No matter, she reasoned, he was so muscled he could easily support them.

No matter… Now, why was that phrase bouncing around in her skull with the warnings of a war horn?

The trail of kisses was quickly leading back up to her flushed cheeks and swollen lips, and Sansa was very much sure she was ready to give herself over to it completely, if only those two words would stop blaring in her ear. No matter…

With a strangled yelp just as his lips pressed back against hers, she jerked back her head and unleashed a hand to smack him across the stubbled skin of his cheek so hard the clap of her palm against his cheek reverberated throughout the stone chamber. 

Flushing in fury, she noted that not only did he not look properly abashed for attacking her with kisses when they were equally furious with one another, he actually had the nerve to just blink at her owlishly, as if he had no idea how she came to be before him in the first place.

_Smack_. Her left hand joined the right, leaving a similar mar of rage on his other cheek, as she held her head high and glared as fiercely as she ever had in her life. “Unhand me this instance!” She nearly screamed, blue eyes blazing as her hands trembled with the stinging sensations left behind by the slaps.

He looked well and truly stunned, the cold mask nowhere in site, as he blinked at her with open confusion. She pushed, seizing the advantage his brief bewilderment left her, and just as she was an arms length away and beginning to clear a path towards the door she saw the fog lift away in a final blink, and then he was on her in a snarling rage.

He pursued her to the door, catching hold of one arm and pulling her back so forcefully she spun around to face him, allowing him to tightly grasp her other arm as he walked towards her until her back was pressed flush against the wooden door. The two handprints she’d left were screaming at her on his cheeks, and the wild look had returned to his steel gray eyes when the clashed with her own. 

“Did you strike me?” He asked harshly, his usual composure long gone and replaced by a raspy quality that was confusingly shooting straight down between her thighs. 

“Yes.” She snapped, nostrils flaring as she sucked in air and fought to clear the lusty thoughts from her mind. 

The muscles in his forearms were flexing with barely maintained restraint while his jaw clenched and he glared at her, leaning close until he was forcing her to fully recline against the door. “You _struck_ me.” He spat out, and behind the wild wrath dripping from his tone, she saw the faintest expression of that told her he was wounded, not just in face but in pride. 

It was that look, that crack in his armor, that had her resolve splintering as the anger was replaced by a growing sense of betrayal. “You crushed me,” she whispered, shutting her eyes tight to hold back the threat of tears. 

Her heart was pounding furiously in her chest as she sucked in a series of shaky breathes before she was finally able to open up her eyes and face him once more. What she saw nearly broke her heart all over again.

His face was hard, uncompromising as ever, the sharp planes catching in shadows giving him an eerily haunting quality, with his pale skin and brownish gray stubble prickling his cheeks. But those eyes, warm and almost sparkling in the firelight, those eyes were looking at her with the softest expression she never even dared to imagine receiving from Roose Bolton. The lines around those magnificent eyes had softened to smooth skin, making him instantly younger as he gazed on her with a tenderness that made her head swim anew as her breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded clear out of her chest. “I know,” he said softly, the faintest hint of melancholy in his tone making her swallow back a fresh wave of tears.

He was still pressing her firmly into the door, and she let her eyes fall down to stare at the center of his chest she was level with while she took several steadying breaths, overwhelmed by the depths she saw swirling in his warm gray eyes. With a hitch and a sigh, she let her gaze drift back up to see a more guarded tenderness now as he watched her critically, the crinkles in the corners once again returning as he swept his eyes over her face. 

“You are not sorry,” she heard herself whispering, biting her lip when the tears came once more, one solitary droplet slipping out from her lower lashes to slow spill down her cheek. He watched it with rapt attention, focusing in on that single, salty little pearl as it slid over the rise of her cheeks, down to the curve of her jaw, before dripping to the top of her shift and dampening the thin silk. 

“No,” she heard him whisper, still staring at the dark circle the teardrop had left on the top of her left breast. “I am not sorry.”

Her chin started to shake as her lip quivered and she fought back the pout that was threatening to burst into a flood of tears. She was forcing in air through her nose while she clenched her teeth almost painfully, until finally his eyes trailed back up over her chin and her nose to meet her watery gaze. He tensed his jaw, working the muscles to the left, before the crinkles smoothed out around his eyes once more and he continued. “You are not sorry, either.”

She thought to question what, exactly, she had to be sorry about, until her mind swam back to yelling that she hated him, to intervening and attempting to derail his plans in the council, to refusing to speak to him, to refusing to really even look at him, to the two red exclamation points screaming at her from his stubbled cheeks, and she ruefully blinked back the tears as her cheeks flushed pink. “No, I’m not,” she whispered, not bothering to hide the hope in her eyes as she looked up at him from beneath her lashes. 

His eyelids swooped down to half-mast as his eyes dropped to her lips, noting the pink tinge of her cheeks. He watched as her tongue darted out to swipe her bottom lip anxiously, before she sucked it into her mouth and bit with her top teeth, releasing it nervously when he groaned and pressed her almost painfully into the wood door at her back. “Sansa?” His soft voice sounded nearly strangled as it pushed out of his throat, and the gruffness and strained desire shot straight between her legs, flaming her lust to greater heights as her cheeks flamed with a sudden realization. She _wanted him_. So desperately, so completely, that it was racing through her blood like wildfire at the thought of finally having him thrusting home inside her wet heat once more.

She blushed crimson, eyes fluttering shut briefly before she nodded, a tiny jerk of ascent with her chin, head bowed down to his chest. The grip on her upper arms tightened nearly to the point of bruising, and her eyes shot back open as she raised her head to look at him with alarm. His pupils were blown out wide, making his eyes nearly black in the dim light, and his jaw was clenched so tightly she wondered if he would crack a tooth. “Tell me,” he ground out, sounding almost pained in his trembling restraint. “Tell me, or I won’t.” 

She felt the tips of her ears and the tops of her breasts redden to match her cheeks in response, but she raised her chin bravely and met his hooded gaze with her own, licking her lips deliberately and feeling a thrill shoot down her spine as he growled in response, still not moving an inch, still clinging to her arms like a raft off shore. “Yes, Roose, I want-“ her words were cut off with the force of his lips, choking off her air, strangling her thoughts, making her fight to even _breathe_ with the force of his kiss and his want, for her.

She broke off with a gasp, tossing her head back to slide against the wood as he repeated his trail of kisses, this time with scrapes of teeth, which he soothed with long swipes of his silken tongue. Sansa gripped his shoulders in a vice, clinging to the leather like she was holding on for dear life, losing herself in the hands that gripped the flesh of her backside, tightening deliciously until she was arched and aching, hungry for whatever he had to give. She slid one hand back up his chest to wind around the back of his neck, carding her fingers through his hair before taking hold and firmly pushing his head back up from the tops of her breasts above her silk shift, forcing his lips up for another kiss.

This one was every bit soft and slow as the others were frantic and rushed, and the curling of his tongue and the teasing of his lips and the sharpness of his nips had her moaning into his mouth in abandon, spreading her legs to shift and accommodate the hardness of his thigh, desperate to bring some friction to the place that ached to the steady drum of his name. Grinding into his thigh, she sucked his tongue into her mouth, wrapping her lips around it the way she dreamed of wrapping her lips around his cock, until he was the one moaning into her mouth, his hands splayed and squeezing so tight on her behind that she released his tongue with a desperate whine for something she couldn’t name.

He knew though, oh he knew, and he whispered her name like a prayer into the soft strands of her hair while he reached between them to unlace his breeches. Just as she felt them give, she used that leg she’d wrapped around his waist to pull him tighter, jerking him forward, forcing his fingers to graze the soft flesh hidden between her thighs, dripping into his breeches. 

He chuckled darkly into her ear, dipping his head so the breath of his laughter feathered the curls dusting across the soft skin of her ear and neck, making her shudder and moan all the louder while his skillful fingers played among the curls. He slicked his fingers through her folds, gathering up the moisture with an answering groan to her moan, teasing that little bud of pleasure until she was keening into his ear, grinding her hips down into his thigh and hand as she chased her release. 

When she was panting steadily and repeating his name with each swipe of his fingers he shifted his hips, retracted his hand and gripped her hard around her thighs, lifting her up as she cried out in protest at the removal of the delicious friction between her legs. Then, just as her eyes fluttered open and met the wild arousal piercing his, he brought her thighs around his hips, spreading her wide as he thrust into her straight to the hilt, in one smooth stroke. Sansa cried out in aching pleasure at the sudden intrusion, her eyes stuck in a trance with his as they stared into each other while he pulled back out until just the tip remained, before sliding home once more.

His strokes were the lazy, languid lovemaking of a simpler time, slow and smooth and deliciously _sinful_ as he pressed her back into the door, holding her hips and sliding into her like he knew exactly where he belonged. She threw her head back, still holding his gaze as she gave herself over to the pleasure of him finally stretching and filling her once more, completing her in a way as old as time, as he stroked her passions with each upward thrust that had her clenching her core. 

She wrapped both arms around his neck, locking both legs around his waist, as he entered and retrieved and entered once more, unhurried and savoring each second they were joined, the mask of pleasure all over his face. The first time she came, she burst apart with a whimper, her orgasm rolling over her as sudden as a summer rainstorm, while he tucked his head into her neck and continued to keep that rocking pace, prolonging her pleasure as she rode wave after wave wrapped up in his arms. She whined into his ear, holding him close as tears pricked her eyes, and while he continued to thrust into her, still snapping his hips so slowly she thought he meant to take her forever, he raised his head with a slight glance of alarm.

Emotions rolled through her chasing away the first peaks of pleasure, and Sansa felt a tear trickle down her cheek as she clung to him tighter, leaning down to press her forehead into the top of his shoulder as he pushed back from the door, carried her while still flush inside her until he could slide her on her back onto the bed. “Sansa?” He whispered gruffly into her ear, picking back up with the tortuously slow snap of his hips as he pushed up on his forearms slightly to force her to meet his eyes.

Sansa was choking on the emotion of it all, and with a wave of embarrassment that had her cheeks flushing pink, she reached up to quickly pull him back down for a kiss. She kissed him with all the desperation he’d had when he first kissed her, and the press of her lips and the pull of her teeth had him picking up his pace, pounding into her with abandon as he growled into her mouth and let himself go. “Tell me,” he ground out, each syllable punctuated by a hard snap of his hips, and she felt the second storm of pleasure and warmth bubbling up from her thighs in response. 

“Tell me,” he growled once more, snapping his hips even harder, filling her so completely she was writhing with mindless abandon, desperate to chase the sadness away, desperate to find her release once more. 

As her legs began to shake and her body tightened to a fever pitch around him, she closed her eyes tight, pulled him in close and whispered in his ear, “I missed you,” before giving herself over to the sighs and screams and mindless abandon of pleasure she found in his arms alone.

Roose came with a grunt, joining her in bliss as he spilled his seed and pressed his forehead tight into her shoulder, mirroring her earlier pose as he fought to steady his breathing and she her slamming heart. He pulled back slightly, softening cock still deep inside her, and pulled her up to wrap his arms around her and gently move her back to lay fully on the linens, reaching back by his hips to take hold of the furs and pull them up over them.

They lay there together, bodies still joined, a tangle of limbs, her head pressed to his chest while his pressed into her hair. She felt him sigh, his arms pulling her tighter into his chest, and she answered in kind when he pressed a gentle kiss into the top of her hair. 

She smiled into the pillow of his shoulder, for the first time since that fated day excited about the prospect of sleep. She knew what his kiss meant, knew it in her very bones, even though he’d never say. _He missed her, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just shy of 3,000 words of sexy time. I'd say that's appropriate for the second chapter in one day! ;)
> 
> Hozier's To Be Alone was the anthem for this scene.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something lighter after the drama of the past few chapters. Happy Friday! :)

Sansa’s eyes flitted open to the songs of the birds beyond her window, and she blinked and stretched lazily in the morning sunlight as she rolled and reached for her husband, intending to continue what they’d started last night. With a huff of annoyance, she realized that he was apparently already long gone, even his pillow now chilled from the air. She pouted at the pillow. Not even a little slip of parchment?

She smiled at that thought, rolling her eyes and shaking her head while admonishing herself for being a silly, silly girl. Her husband was _Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort_. No, she would not be receiving any little love notes. 

She giggled, pushing up to sit, before a sudden wave of dizziness and nausea swept through her, making her sprint in a mad dash towards the chamber pot. Heaving up what little she’d managed to eat of last night’s repast, she wondered whether the strain with her husband had finally caught up with her stomach.

Rising from the chamber pot, she made her way to the basin and splashed the cool water on her cheeks, calming the flush and hoping to settle her stomach and her nerves. There was still so much left unsaid between them, despite the bittersweet of the night before, and she worried her stomach might remain in knots the entire day at the prospect.

Her cheeks flamed as she made her way to her dressing gown, pulling the rope next to the fireplace to summon the maid. She had _slapped_ him, and then had refused to apologize for it! But he’d just been so cold and cruel ever since that stupid night, that when he came to her to steal hot and heavy kisses, she just couldn’t help but let the anger roll over her. 

In truth, she should probably be quite thankful she woke up this morning with both hands. 

Sighing as the maid entered and began to tidy up the room, Sansa slumped into the chair next to the fire, trying to pretend it was nowhere near as cozy and warm as the chair she shared with Roose. 

Roose.

He was so hard and unyielding, never flinching or revealing his true thoughts behind his carefully crafted mask of indifference; and yet, last night he’d actually asked her permission, his eyes softening to her tears, his kisses warm in her hair. Her heart fluttered a little faster when she remembered the way he’d held her close and stroked her back as she fell asleep. Perhaps he really wasn’t _quite_ as terrible as he seemed to want her and the rest of the world to believe?

As the butterflies kicked up in her breast she felt another bout of nausea coming on, and quickly rushed back to the chamber pot the maid had just finished emptying. “Shall I fetch the maester, my lady?” She asked quietly, as Sansa bent over the pot and wiped the sweat from her brow.

She nodded with a heavy head, before turning and making her way back to the bed. Just in time, she called out wearily to the maid slipping out the door. “Wait! Please, don’t tell Lord Bolton?”

“Yes, my lady,” she heard demurely, before Grey Wind padded in to curl up with her under the furs.

~*~

Roose stalked through the yard, making his way to the stables to ensure his and Sansa’s horses had been properly treated the night before, and just barely resisted groaning and rolling his eyes at the sly smile present on Ser Royce’s waiting face in the distance.

“Come to check on your lady’s mount?” He called casually, gray eyes twinkling with laughter, as Roose pierced him with his fiercest scowl and marched past him and into the stables. 

“I wished to be sure our horses were will cared for, yes,” he snipped, not quite able to hide the testy nature of his tone.

The whistle behind him had the hairs rising on the back of his neck in irritation, and he had to fight back a snarl. “My my, for a man who has reunited with his lady, your in quite the foul temper this morning.”

Roose shot a glare over his shoulder as he leaned over to pat the neck of Sansa’s dappled mare, resting in the stall next to his own black stallion. “Do not think I am above lashing you myself, Royce,” he warned quietly, the seriousness in his tone sobering Royce up in an instant.

“I cared for them myself, my lord,” he said calmly, nodding at the horses peaking over the ends of their stalls merrily. “They are in fine shape.”

Roose nodded, turning to walk back out of the stables and back to break his fast in the great hall. “Very well. Make yourself intimately familiar with the entirety of the keep today, Royce.”

Apparently, Ser Royce was only sobered up for an instant, rather than in an instant. “I trust you’re now sufficiently _intimate_ with your own quarters, my lord? If the exploration of the strength of the _door_ last eve was any indication?” He asked cheekily, a wide grin splitting his warm face while his eyes danced in amusement. 

Roose actually felt his face flush when he realized he’d forgotten to dismiss the guard to move to the front of the hall, and didn’t bother to keep the smug smirk off his lips. “I believe a second, more thorough evaluation may be in order, but I will handle that myself,” he said dryly, shaking his head as Royce’s laughter echoed across the yard while he strode into the keep.

~*~

There was something not quite right about Maester Qyburn, Sansa had decided. He was perfectly respectful and thorough in his evaluation, and yet something about the way he watched her with his cold black eyes sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold air blowing in through the cracked window. 

Settling her skirts back down to cover her legs, she watched as he carefully repacked all of his equipment before sighing and piercing her with a hard stare. “When was your last moon’s blood, my lady?” He asked bluntly, watching her with rapt attention as her eyes went wide and she felt the blood drain from her face.

“I- You mean… I-“ She stuttered, forcing herself to take a calming breath before her brow creased almost painfully. “It has been three moon turns since I last bled,” she said quietly, feeling the room begin to spin around her shoulders.

He hummed, nodding along in agreement as he saw the truth of it sweep over her face. “You are with child, my lady. And I suspect you are nearly three moons along.” Sansa nodded faintly as Grey Wind rested his heavy head in her lap, nudging her hand with the crown of his head. “Shall I inform Lord Bolton?”

“No,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “That will be all, thank you Maester Qyburn.”

His sharp eyes creased momentarily before he nodded swiftly and made his way out of the room. Finally alone once more, Sansa bit her lip and glanced down to Grey Wind in her lip, fingering his handsome collar. In one respect, she was barely able to contain her excitement at carrying her first babe, something she’d dreamed of doing for her lord since she was nine years old. On the other, her lord happened to be one who was colder than the winter beyond the wall, so who was to say what he would think of this development? Surely he would be pleased that she was with child so soon? 

Another thought had tears pricking her eyes, and she wondered why she was suddenly crying more often than a newborn babe. What if he would no longer join her in bed? Pouting rather prettily, she traced the running direwolves with her finger, before gasping as an even worse development took hold. What if he found a different bed to warm his nights?

Bursting into tears, she quickly made her way to the desk and scribbled out a note, not bothering to hide the tears staining the corners of the parchment. Signing it in a rush, she slipped it into the little pocket in Grey Wind’s collar, before shooing him to find Roose and bring it to his attention.

As the fit of tears made her sob pathetically into her pillow, Sansa wondered how she would ever make it through six more moon turns of such overwhelming emotions.

~*~

Later that afternoon Roose found himself seated in the lord’s solar, while his King discussed the potential terms his mother might return with from Lord Frey. He wondered idly why Sansa had not chosen to join them today, but thought perhaps she was still furious with him, regardless of their reunion the previous evening. Perhaps she was avoiding him once more?

He frowned, pushing that thought and the uncomfortable clench in his chest away. She’d joined the council while ready to flay him, so one would assume that wasn’t the reason.

Grey Wind padded in silently and made his way over to rest his head in Roose’s lap, much to the obvious chagrin of his previous master. He greeted him with the routine scratch behind the ears, but quickly became annoyed when the direwolf continued to bump his hand and nudge it back towards his neck. As his eyes flicked down to shoot the thing a glare, he suddenly recalled the collar, and wondered if perhaps Grey Wind was trying to get his attention?

Casting a surreptitious glance around the room and noting all eyes were presently on the King, he slipped his fingers over to loosen the string and open the pouch. Sure enough, a little piece of parchment winked up at him from the folds of leather, tugging his curiosity. 

He pulled it into his lap, and briefly glanced down to scan the contents, frowning with alarm at the odd crinkles that looked suspiciously like drying water, and the nearly frantic pace of the scribbles.

_I need to speak with you when you are able today. It is urgent._

_Sansa_

No address, no “Yours”, no information other than the unsteady handwriting and the urgent request. A cold feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, and he had to strongly fight the urge to get up and run to her this instant, sword drawn with alarm. Surely, if it were an emergency affecting her person, the direwolf would not have just settled down to curl around his feet under the table?

 

He should not draw attention, and should stay to learn of the plans of the King. He should most certainly not fly as if the seven hells themselves pursued him in the direction of his wife.

A curious glance from the Greatjon had him leaning over to whisper out of the side of his mouth before his mind could shut him up. “Will you meet me later? Something urgent requires my attention.”

A frown creased the warrior’s brow, and he nodded and actually _whispered_ back. If Roose was not so alarmed at Sansa’s note, he might have paused to admire the fact. “As the dancing starts after the feast, meet me in the yard.”

With a swift nod to the Greatjon, and a bow with mumbled regrets to his King, Roose was finally stalking with purpose in the direction of his chambers, desperately fighting the urge to break into a run.

~*~

Sansa choked back a yelp when the door to her chambers flew open without warning, and her wild-eyed husband marched in in a manner that could only be described as his version of a panic. “What is the matter?” He said fiercely, dropping to sit next to her on the edge of the bed as he narrowed his eyes and scanned her critically.

Well aware she must look a sight, Sansa offered him a watery smile, before bursting into tears once more. She noted his eyes had widened in alarm, and suddenly she felt a strong hand carefully take hold of her own, prying her fist loose from the furs, before gently stroking the back of her knuckles with his thumb.

The sweetness of the gesture, and her memories of all the times he’d used it to bring her comfort sent her into a fresh round of tears, and she felt him tense before sighing impatiently, ripping back the furs to slide in next to her and gather her up in his arms. He pulled her over his lap, resting her head on his shoulder while he carefully held onto her hand and continued to trace circles. Eventually, as the fingers of his other hand combed soothingly through her hair and lightly scratched her scalp, Sansa found herself relaxing into his arms, her tears drying up in the linen tunic he was wearing. 

She hiccupped a few times once more, and finally raised her head to look him in the eyes. Although he appeared mildly annoyed with her hysterics, he was in general still seemingly concerned, so without a second thought she jumped right in.

“I’m with child.” 

Her hand shook as he tightened his grip, and she felt a rising anxiety when he began to simply stare blankly back at her, before his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You are with child.” His voice was cold, lacking entirely of any emotion, but she thought she saw a hint of anger flare in the depths of those gray eyes.

“Yes,” she whispered, biting her lip to hold back another round of tears.

“You are with child, and you are sad.” 

She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat as her cheeks flushed in embarrassment and he grew painfully still. 

“You are carrying my child, and this makes you sad.” 

Her eyes flew wide at that, and she quickly shook her head in horror, her jaw dropping to form a perfect “O”. “Oh, no, Roose!” Tears welled once more, and this time she let them fall in fat drops down her pale cheeks. “I am sad that you won’t want me anymore and you will be rid of me once I give you an heir and you will go and-“

He cut her off with a kiss, stifling the words and sweeping them away with a swipe of his tongue as he gripped her hair and her hand with tight restraint. Sansa sighed, her tears drying up in an instant as she melted into his warm chest and tilted her head to deepen the kiss. He pulled back slightly to kiss the two trails of tears down her cheeks and she felt her lip begin to quiver as she searched his eyes with her own. “You are not angry?”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes and giving her a glare lacking in any heat. A glint lit up the corner of warm gray, and suddenly she felt him rolling until she was on her back, her skirts hiked up around her waist as he pulled her small clothes down her legs. The kisses began around her ankles, peppering up along her inner legs, back and forth until he gently spread her legs wide. One heated glare had her clenching with need, and then he was ducking his head to feast on the wetness coating her curls and folds. 

He parted her gently, his fingers teasing and questing, before his tongue licked a long stroke up from her core to her pearl of pleasure. While his finger pressed in to soothe the ache, his tongue began to lick and tease, circling until she was writhing and moaning and fisting her hands into the furs. As her legs began to shake and her moans turned into wails, he took her bud of pleasure in between his lips and sucked, making her burst apart with a scream of his name. Sansa bucked wildly, her head amongst the clouds, while he continued to lick her soothingly, wringing every last drop of pleasure out of her peak. 

He climbed back up and suddenly was thrusting into her, his lips on her neck as he filled her with his cock. She moaned, arching her back to meet him thrust for thrust, and she tugged him in for a kiss that left her tasting herself on his tongue, stealing her breath right out of her chest. He came with a growl into her neck, spilling his seed as he carefully held himself up off of her chest, before rolling off to the side and tucking her into his arms. 

She nuzzled into the cleft of his shoulder, sighing with pleasure as she began to drift to sleep in his arms. “I am not angry with you,” he said quietly, a hint of amusement in his tone, and she let out a happy giggle in response. 

Several heartbeats later, she heard him murmur a question into the tips of her hair so quietly, she was not sure he wanted an answer. “Was that truly why you were crying?” She sighed, pressing a soft kiss to the linen tunic, and snuggling in further, nodding shyly in answer. She felt him huff out a breath of amusement and shake his head, before he pulled her in closer. “You are going to be the death of me.” 

She could only laugh briefly, until thoughts of his death brought on a fresh bought of tears. She heard him mumble something about having a meeting, and with a quick peck on her head he rose from the bed and hurried out from the room.


	25. Chapter 25

Refreshed from a nap and few more bouts of tears, Sansa dressed in her favorite new gown of black silks with blood-red lacing and embroidery, accepting her white fur wrap from her maid just as a knock sounded on the chamber door. Roose strode in, dressed in an all black ensemble of leather breeches, tunic and doublet, and Sansa could note quite keep the small smile from her face when his gaze swept from her loose auburn curls down to the toes of her blood red leather boots, another new favorite. When his eyes finally returned to hers they were burning with an unreadable expression that had her blushing down to the tops of her breasts, a fact he did not miss if the brief dip in his gaze was any indication. As he took several steps towards her she couldn’t help but dip into a small curtsy, a teasing smile spreading wide. “Do I meet with your approval, my lord?”

His lips twitched into his version of a smirk as he raised a brow with wry amusement, offering her his arm to escort her down to the welcoming feast. “You are indeed passable this evening, my lady,” he bantered back, much to her amusement, his face carefully passive while his eyes twinkled in the firelight. 

“I should hope so,” she teased, twining her arm more closely through his and following him to the door. “We do match, after all. What is that turn of phrase? Something about great minds and like thoughts?”

He snorted, coming very close to rolling his eyes as he looked down towards her where she peaked cheekily up at him from his shoulder. “I fear that only means the opposite stands true, as well; thus, I refuse to accept the principle.”

“Very well, my lord,” she murmured demurely, batting her lashes before smoothing her countenance into the Bolton mask she’d learned so well. As they made their way into the great hall she couldn’t help but add, “I will defer to my lord husband and his wisdom in these matters.” From the corner of her eye she watched as his jaw clenched and he fought back a smirk of amusement. 

“As you should. There will be consequences if you don’t.” 

Reaching the high table, she nodded for him to proceed her to their seats, as he was closest to the center, surprisingly seated next to the King. “Age before beauty, my lord,” she said solemnly, and though she was able to reign in the smile threatening to break out over her face, she couldn’t quite keep the twinkling from her eyes. 

Just as they were seated and she had raised her glass of wine for a sip, his soft whisper slipped in through her hair to tease the shell of her ear. “See if I leave a council meeting again just to slip into your small clothes.” 

Stifling a giggle, she whispered in response before turning to her left to great the Greatjon. “I shall strive to behave, my lord. That is a punishment I doubt I could withstand,” she teased, gently squeezing his hand affectionately before removing her own. After Ser Royce’s warnings, they had agreed to be far more reserved towards each other in front of the watchful eyes of Robb’s court. 

The feast was uneventful, and Sansa was just congratulating herself on making it more than an hour without crying, when a light reproach from Queen Talisa brought her up short. “Oh, Lady Sansa, forgive me but is your wine watered down?”

Roose became still as stone as she gracefully leaned over and raised a questioning brow. “It is, Your Grace, thank you for your concern,” she replied passively, a respectful smile on her face.

Queen Talisa’s brow furrowed with false concern, and she motioned for her server to come closer. “My dear, trust me when I say this wine could be harmful for the babe. Please, you must share in mine. It is a family mixture designed to support the growth of your unborn child.” Sansa paled at the sickly sweet words, her heart thrumming in her throat as she fought to control the alarm cracking fissures in the mask on her features. 

Roose looked murderous when conversation at the table slammed to a halt in the wake of the Queen’s pronouncement. Robb leaned over with a wide smile, clapping Roose on the shoulder as he offered congratulations. “Sansa, I had no idea! Congratulations, sister, Lord Bolton! Wonderful news, we must have a celebration!”

“No need, Your Grace,” he replied softly, the anger radiating off him in waves. “We had not yet announced the happy news; I apologize we were unable to tell you directly, but as we only learned today, we had not had the time.”

Robb was smiling wide as Talisa simpered with false apology behind him. “Oh, Lord Bolton, forgive me! I had thought it was common news!” 

“It is now, Your Grace. Thank you for your concern, but as the babe is quite healthy, we’ve no cause to change Lady Sansa’s diet.” 

Sansa breathed a sigh in relief, a trickle of unease sliding down her spine at the suggestion of Queen Talisa’s wine, yet her brother was ignorant of any potential conflict and jovially insisted Sansa be brought a glass. “Nonsense, Lord Bolton, I won’t hear of it! Sansa should be afforded all comforts my own lady receives during this special time.” He turned, motioning for the server to be off at once. “You heard the Queen, bring Lady Sansa a glass of her wine this instant!” 

Sansa felt her hands begin to clench and unclench, crumpling the silks of her dress as she attempted to gracefully receive the well wishes shouted in their direction from various diners at the high table. She sighed with relief when Roose’s hand slipped into her lap, gently releasing the imprisoned silks and twining her fingers with his own. With a smile on his face that did not reach his eyes, he leaned over to whisper into her ear. “I see the musicians are about to strike up a tune. I have business that I must attend to, and will join you after in our chambers. Do not, under any circumstances, ingest the wine.” Sansa felt the unease grow until it was a pit of snakes writhing in her belly, and she tightened her hold on his hand as she forced a smile to her face and nodded in agreement as he pulled away. She had an inkling of what he suspected, and the thought of harm coming to their unborn babe brought a bout of protectiveness so strong Roose actually let out a grunt at the strength of her hold on his fingers. Shooting her a glare lacking any real heat, he extracted himself and rose to exit the hall, followed several minutes later by the Greatjon. 

An island unto herself at this moment, Sansa was pondering how to slip out when the server returned with her cup of wine. Thanking the server with a small smile, Sansa turned to meet the insipid gaze of the Queen, smiling and nodding for her to enjoy a taste. Just as she reached for the glass, no idea of how to politely refuse coming into her muddled mind, a drunk Ser Royce slumped into the chair her husband had vacated, slamming his goblet down next to her own. He was laughing uproariously, barking out a racy joke with a soldier down a few steps from the dais, and turned towards her to loudly share it with her in an exaggerated whisper. Sansa blushed pink, fighting back a smile. She heard Robb pronounce he was on the edge of his seat in anticipation, and wasn’t able to get a word in edgewise before Ser Royce picked up his goblet and moved around the table, lounging between the King and Queen to retell the tale. She barely succeeded in ignoring the urge to roll her eyes when he plunked down his goblet on the table and leaned in casually between them.

She noted his positioning had shielded her momentarily from the Queen’s view, and Sansa didn’t waste a moment to switch her goblet with the one her husband had left behind, mentally singing Ser Royce’s praises to the gods for providing her with the opportunity to avoid the potential threat. As Royce sauntered off back down the dias, swigging an obscene sip from his wine and nearly toppling down a stair in the process, she caught Queen Talisa’s gaze, and raised her goblet in acknowledgement before tipping it back to take a sip. The Queen had a smile slyer than a fox in response, and mirrored Sansa’s actions, raising her own goblet and swallowing deeply, before sputtering and flinging it down onto the merrymakers that had just picked up the steps of a dance below.

Sansa watched in confusion as the Queen’s eyes widened comically large, a look of acute horror twisting her face into a nasty mask, before blood curling scream burst from her lips to pierce the revelry and echo ominously across the stones. With rising alarm, Sansa glanced down and saw blood began to stain the front of Talisa’s gown. Her head began to swim when Ser Royce caught hold of her arm, lifting her unceremoniously to nearly drag her from the hall and back to Roose’s chambers, while her brother called for the maester and swept his Queen up into his arms. 

~*~

 

Roose walked to the edge of the courtyard covered in shadow, pacing anxiously until he heard the lumbering gate that could only indicate one man striding with purpose in his direction. He turned, meeting the affable grin of the Greatjon with a curt nod of his own, and started the discussion without preamble. “Thank you for meeting me, Lord Umber. Did I miss anything of import this afternoon?”

The large man nodded with more grace than Roose had assumed the entire line of Umber’s possessed, and he responded with quiet congratulations and a brief update of the convening. “I must say, I now understand entirely why you left in such a rush, though I do question how you became aware of your wife’s condition?” 

Roose narrowed his eyes, cursing himself for having ever doubting the shrewd intelligence of the giant before him. “That is none of your concern,” he said icily, steel in his tone. 

The Greatjon smiled wide, nodding and professing that “he had only ever heard in folklore of such a connection where one was in tune with their lady’s emotions.” Shaking his head at the booming laughter, he walked a few steps further into the shadows, away from the keep. The Greatjon’s next words nearly had him faltering in his step. “I understand we share a mutual interest, Lord Bolton,” he said quietly, his loud voice now so soft that Roose had to strain to hear. 

“Indeed, my lord?” he questioned, his eyes sharply searching the shadows of the Greatjon’s face to read his reactions to what could now be called treason. “I wonder, is that interest in the health of my lady wife, or in the fate of the North?”

A smile twitched across the larger man’s face, and the glint in his eyes had Roose’s pulse racing at all the possibilities beginning to open up before him. “I had thought those were one in the same, Lord Bolton.” 

They were in a dangerous dance now, each one studiously searching the face of the other, before Roose took a calculated risk and made the leap forward. “Indeed, Lord Umber,” he said quietly, “I do believe they are.” 

A scream pierced the night, halting the exchange of treasonous whispers and cautious eyes, and they both took off at a run when a woman’s wails reached their ears, followed by the roars of their King. Sprinting into the great hall, Roose was met with grizzly scene that had the hairs standing up on the back of his neck as he searched the room for Sansa. His King was exiting the dais and making his way towards the steps to their rooms, his Queen cradled in his arms. A trail of blood had stained her skirts, and was flowing like a river across the dirt of the floor in their wake.

~*~

Sansa was seated in front of a roaring fire in their chamber, wrapped in furs with Grey Wind curled around her feet as Ser Royce paced restlessly across the floor, awaiting Roose’s return. She was shaking so violently the chattering of her teeth made a sharp staccato in the room, punctuated by the occasional whines of concern of the direwolf below. 

There was so much _blood_. 

Tears welled when she wondered whether the drink she’d avoided would have resulted in a similar state of circumstances for her own babe, and she protectively wrapped a hand tightly over her still flat torso. She would _not_ allow that to happen to the little creation growing inside of her. She was the heart wolf, wrapped in flayed men. She was _strong_. 

The door burst open without a knock of warning, and Roose came through with his sword drawn and his eyes wild, taking in the scene before him. He nearly ran to her seat, and before she could process the alarming look on his face, she found herself pulled into a hug so tight the air left her lungs in a rush. She heard Ser Royce clear his throat as Roose pulled back to look down on her, and she watched as the two exchanged an unreadable look for a long moment before Ser Royce quietly left the chamber.

As soon as the door was closed, she heard Roose’s sword clatter to the floor, and then he was sweeping her up in his arms before resettling them back on the chair by the fire, her wrapped up tight in his arms. She pressed in further into his chest, soaking in the warmth and comfort of him, while he held her and listened to her teeth rattle the room. 

“That was supposed to be me, wasn’t it?” She whispered quietly, as the warmth finally seeped in through her silks and furs and skin to her bones. 

He was silent as he stared into the flames. 

“I… Who would benefit from poisoning us both?”

He appeared almost bewildered when he shot her a startled gaze, before he snorted and pulled her in closer, tucking her head into his shoulder. “I can think of any number of individuals. However, I do believe you were the only intended target.”

Sansa struggled to push back enough to look up into his face, and she shook her head rapidly in disagreement. “No, Roose, I received the same drink as the Queen. If it weren’t for Ser Royce’s distraction, I-“

She paused, her eyes growing wide as she stared at the stone beyond Roose’s head, all of the pieces suddenly falling into place. “Ser Royce,” she whispered suddenly, turning to meet Roose’s gaze of approval.

“Yes, Ser Royce.” 

A knock on the door stifled Sansa’s next words, and the man himself was suddenly before them with a look of alarm. “The Queen?” Roose asked softly, his tone impassive.

Ser Royce shook his head, pressing on without catching a breath. “No, Roose. A raven from Riverrun, our boy in the stables intercepted it. It appears Hoster Tully passed last eve, though foul play is not suspected.”

Roose was so still and silent Sansa almost wondered if he hadn’t heard, until he was rising up to stand and resettling her amongst the furs of their bed. “You may invite Grey Wind if you wish, Sansa. I won’t be returning this evening. There is much to be done.” After placing a chaste kiss to her lips, he turned on his heel and marched into the chaos beyond their door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to LadyGrey81 for sparking ideas for this chapter! :)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 200 kudos?!?! THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH!!! :D This is a huge milestone for me, and I am so honored and grateful to all of you for reading and commenting and kudo-ing! You're the best!! :)
> 
> A lighter chapter in celebration...

Ser Royce had managed some slight of hand to replace her cup and deliver it to Queen Talisa. She’d thought on it for hours, recalling with crystal clarity the way he’d stumbled as if he were deep in his cups, nearly screaming his bawdy joke in the ears of the King and Queen. Yet not five minutes later, after he nearly fell off the dais, he moved back up it sure-footed and full of grace, to catch her elbow and yank her from the hall.

Ser Royce had switched the cups. He had committed treason against his King and Queen, against the North, all to protect his lady and his House. 

It was moon tea that caused her to bleed. Maester Qyburn had informed the war council that only moon tea could have caused her to lose the babe; she was healthy in all other aspects. By some stroke of fate, it appeared the Queen herself would recover mostly unscathed from the incident, and would not perish with the unborn babe, as sometimes occurred later in the pregnancy. The council members were stunned, none having yet been aware of their Queen’s carrying of the heir to the North. Not that it mattered now.

Ser Royce had switched the cups, committed treason, and slain the babe of the North. 

She would have been a wonderful Aunt, she was sure. Kind and sweet and doting, perhaps a little indulgent, but that was to be expected. Their children would have been less than months apart in age, their lives and fates twined together closer than siblings. Now, on the day she learned of the child she would bring into this world, she learned of the passing of another not yet born. 

Ser Royce had switched the cups, committed treason, slain the babe of the North, and stolen the phantom childhood her son or daughter may have enjoyed.

And Sansa was glad.

~*~

She was still curled up with Grey Wind hours later when Roose finally returned to their chambers, the sun already streaming through the window. The creases and lines sat heavy on his brow with the weight of the weariness of the world and the previous night on his shoulders. For the first time, Sansa was acutely aware of his age, as she watched him walk slowly to his desk, stripping until he only wore his boots, breeches and a soft linen tunic. He very much looked like he’d planned and plotted and fought and scraped his way through each and every one of his nearly fifty years, and it made her heart sad when he slumped into the chair by the fire, a stack of letters loose in his lap, and tilted his head back with a sigh.

“Roose?”

He hummed softly, not bothering to open his eyes or glance in her direction, his usual mask of indifference replaced by one of stark weariness. Sansa bit her lip and nuzzled briefly into the thick fur of Grey Wind’s fur. Should she go to him? Should she invite him to bed? Should she stay silent and leave him be?

“I fear I have no patience at the moment, Sansa. Please be direct, or please be silent.” The words were sharp but lacked any venom, and all she could detect in his tone was a tiredness that ran bone-deep. She pushed aside any lingering doubts and beckoned him to their bed.

“Yes, Roose. Would you please join me in bed for a few hours?” There. She was direct and welcoming, yet not pleading or too inviting. That should put him at ease.

He sighed, sounding as if she had just asked him to carry her all the way to Dorne on his bare shoulders. “As tempting as the offer is, I have neither the disposition or the time, Sansa.”

If he hadn’t sounded as though he were resigned to the fact that she was about to burst into tears, she might have smacked him for that. Instead, she let out a chuckle, shaking her head and shooing Grey Wind from the bed. “As tempting as that sounds, I was actually only wondering if you would care to rest for a few hours? I could leave you, if you prefer.” 

He seemed to perk up at the mention of rest, and was up and moving across towards the bed, before flinging himself face down and burrowing by her side into the pillows and furs. She giggled, watching him as he lay face-down, limbs spread akimbo, and she couldn’t help but whisper “now who has a flare for the dramatics” teasingly into his ear.

He raised his head at that, one brow arching as well in response, while he gave her what she knew he thought was his cold stare, yet it came out adorably petulant on his tired and worn face. “If I were dramatic, I would have already flayed every last server and servant in the North, and would have wrapped you up in their skins and made that whore-Queen kiss your feet.” 

The laughter that burst out of her sounded far closer to an inelegant guffaw than a ladylike simper, and even he cracked a small grin in response, before he rolled his eyes and flopped over to lay on his back, his arm thrown over his face to cover his eyes. “Get some rest,” she whispered, reaching out to run her fingers soothingly through his thinning hair, the way her mother did her siblings when they were younger. “We will discuss any flaying, or otherwise, later.”

He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _I’ll flay whoever I want to flay whenever I want to flay them_ into his pillow, and she broke into another fit of giggles before curling up on her side to face him as they both drifted off to sleep.

~*~

Several hours later, Sansa awoke in a rush, bolting upright as the sound of a war horn blared in her ear and invaded her dreams, jerking her awake in a panic. She spun around, searching for the invading army to and fro, until the horn sounded again directly to her right, and she realized with a start that the “horn” was none other than her _husband_ , who was uncharacteristically snoring loud enough to wake the dead. 

She suppressed a giggle as her heart slowed while she watched him sleep, his jaw slack and the lines in his face smooth. He looked so peaceful she wished she could leave him be, but she knew that if he slept much more he would grumble and moan about the hours he’d wasted abed when there was work to be done.

She should wake him up.

A devious little thought slipped into her mind, and a coy smile spread across her lips. She would wake him up. _All_ of him. 

Twisting onto her hands and knees, Sansa raked her eyes down over the soft linen of his shirt and breeches, letting her gaze linger at the laces hiding the target of her efforts. Surely, he would be happy? She had yet to return the favor in regards to touches and tastes, and she thought it was high time she borrowed a page from the Lannister’s book of lies and pay the debt.

Ser Royce’s story about the maids that he’d repeated more times than he ever should have last night flitted through her mind. If that were any indication, Roose would most assuredly not mind. Actually, she thought with anticipation, he should truly be quite _pleased_.

Giving herself a nod for courage, Sansa tossed off her shift until she was naked as her name day, kneeling on the bed over her husband’s thighs. He had yet to stir, though his snoring had thankfully ceased, which was also quite uncharacteristic for him. 

He deserved this. She could do this. He was her husband, and if he could take his _husbandly rights_ anytime he wanted, then surely she could claim her _wifely rights._

Yes. She could and she would do this. 

Shooting another glance up to assure herself he was still asleep, she slowly reached out with timid and trembling fingers for the lacings binding his breeches.

As she spread open the lacings and gently tugged his breeches down his hips a ways, her eyes opened wide as she was able to fully appreciate in the light of day what she’d once only seen in shadows. His cock was _enormous_ , from what she understood of such things after overhearing the whispers in the kitchens. He was thick enough she was not certain the circle she made out of her forefinger and thumb would entirely fit around him. Though he was quite short when she’d first opened his breeches, he now appeared to actually _grow_ before her very eyes. Where it had once been resting limp among brown curls, it was now quite literally standing at attention, almost as if it were trying to get her attention, all thick and strong and proud as can be. She watched as a small drop beaded on the little hole in the tip, and she slowly licked her lips as she tentatively reached out a finger to swipe it before it could roll down over the ridge to the shaft. 

A silken whisper, so deep and low it could have been a growl, had her jerking her hand away in shock, eyes blinking rapidly in startled alarm. “Please do not do what it looks like you are about to do, and instead do what I hope you are about to do.” 

Her jaw dropped open and she stared at him bewilderingly, wondering when, precisely, he’d awoken. “I- um.” She was gaping like a fish, and snapped her jaw closed with a click before she swallowed and gathered an air of confidence, draping it around her shoulders like a cloak. Her brow creased on confusion as she processed his words. “What?” 

He smirked, raising a brow as he explained. “You look as though you are about to eat me. I understand your cravings, Sansa, but that is one I refuse to cater to.”

She giggled, shaking her head as she knelt down closer to study the thing still standing proud and tall and erect between them. His _cock_. She blushed at the thought of that dirty word, and wondered whether she would ever be able to say it aloud.

“What has you blushing so prettily as you stare at my cock, Sansa?”

Her blush deepened, and a little thrill raced through her to pool between her thighs at the sound of that very word rumbling out of his mouth. Deciding that she was nowhere near brave enough to respond with words, she chose instead to lean in closer, stroking her finger from tip to base in one long, slow slide, watching with delight as he seemed to nearly shiver in response.

“Sansa,” he said low, an almost warning note present in his tone. 

Peaking up at him from beneath her lashes, she poked her tongue out to lick a swipe across the tip. He tasted of salt and sweat, though not altogether unpleasant, and as his jaw clenched and his eyes burned bright she decided it was certainly pleasant if it garnered this reaction.

Maintaining eye contact, she stole another lick with her tongue, this time swirling it as she would swirl her finger to chase flecks of lemon cake, savoring the tip as she would savor each bite. He practically _groaned_ at that, an almost pained expression tightening his features as his fists tightened in the furs. She hesitated, a sense of worry causing her to frown, until his eyes shot open and he glared down at her. “That was very teasing, Sansa,” he growled, nostrils flaring with irritation.

“I-“ she faltered, before stealing her courage and pressing onward. “You were enjoying it? Only, I wasn’t sure-“

“Yes,” he snapped, before the breaking off in a prolonged hiss as she began to immediately lick as soon as she heard “ye”, another long stroke from tip to base and back again. She set to work taking slow, steady licks up and down the shaft, before an idea sparked and she finished one rotation by closing her lips around the tip at the end. 

Roose’s growl was the only warning she had before he was tugging on her shoulders and flipping her onto her back, her hands somehow now pinned up above her hair. She blinked up at him in equal parts awe and alarm when he kept her hands pinned above her head and worked his body between her parting thighs. Reaching his fingers between them to part her folds, his eyes opened wide as he gathered up the slickness dripping from her core. He leaned in close, his voice dangerously soft in her ear as his fingers began to tease around the spot that made her buck and pant and plead. “You’re already wet in that sweet little cunt, aren’t you, Sansa? You’re wet from getting to lick and suck my cock, and now you want nothing more than for me to fuck you until you scream.” A fresh wave of juices began to drip from her core as he whispered the words in her ear, and she bit her lip as she nodded in desperation, moaning when he growled and groaned in response as he felt the wetness with his fingers.

“You like it when I talk to you, do you?” He mused, low voice dark with amusement when she whined in the back of her throat with need.

His fingers stilled, and she shot him a panicked glare when he started to chuckle once more. “Remember our game? Answers for touches?”

“Yesssss,” she sighed, when his fingers began to tease and play between her folds once more. “I- I like it, Roose.”

Then the blunt tip of his cock was pressing in to nudge against her opening, and his sharp intake of breath was all the warning she had before he plunged himself into her heat, still suspending her arms above her head. Sansa arched her back as she bucked her hips up to try to meet him thrust for thrust, so aching and desperate and mindless with need she could scarcely breathe. He kept his fingers on her bud of pleasure between where they were joined, and each deep thrust of his cock had them brushing over where she pulsed, until she was coiled so tight she thought she might break from the strain of it. 

“P-please, Roose,” she begged, so, so close to the release she craved. One sharp thrust and one light tug where she needed it most sent her spiraling over the edge, and when her walls clamped down and convulsed around him he came with a guttural groan of her name, as she trembled and writhed and milked him for all he was worth. 

He rolled off and to the side, pausing for just a few moments before turning to press a gentle kiss to her head before climbing over her and out of bed. “Join me in the council when you are ready, Sansa. We are to discuss plans for Riverrun due to Hoster Tully’s passing, and I would like you to be visually present for those discussions.”

She smiled shyly and nodded, enjoying a few more languid moments before pushing up to sit and watch as he straightened his clothing. “How long were you awake?” 

He was on his way to the door, but turned and granted her a smirk. “Since the second you decided to slip off your shift and climb over my thighs.”

Sansa blushed prettily, giving him a playful glare as his smirk widened. “You should have told me!”

He scoffed at that, looking at her as if she were a simpleton. “And risk you losing your nerve?” 

His chuckle warmed the room when she threw a pillow in his direction, and she smiled wide when it bounced off the closing door to the stone floor.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: We're going darker here. This chapter explores mature themes, including brief explicit descriptions of homosexual behavior, torture and death. If this is uncomfortable for you, you can skip this chapter and rejoin us in Chapter 28. While important to the storyline, this chapter does not contain crucial information.
> 
> The theme of this chapter is Hozier’s Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene. I'm sure you'll see why :)

Royce had caught Roose’s gaze across the great hall, and immediately pushed back from his seat to casually approach the side of the dais. As Roose was making his way down to slip out while the bards struck up a merry tune, he’d nodded for Royce to join him, and pulled him into the side chamber just before the door. 

“The Queen is going to force Sansa to drink moon tea. She knows about the babe.”

“But how-“

“There’s no time, Royce. Do not let Sansa drink that wine. We’ll settle the rest when it’s time.” 

Roose had been wild, agitated, with panic brimming in his eyes, and Royce had known immediately that Roose himself would have stayed if it had at all been possible. It was up to him. 

He’d lurked in the shadows, watching until the timing was right, as the “special wine” was served to his lady. Sansa sat with more regal bearing than that foreign whore had in her little finger, pale and anxious and proud, a seat over from the King and Queen. Sucking in a breath, he affixed a wide smile on his face, and attempted a glazed look in his eyes. He’d ambled up onto the dais, intentionally stumbling once to knock Dacey Mormont’s wine out of her cup, while slurring an apology and promising with a wink to make it up to her later. She’d rolled her eyes, told him he was far too deep in his cups to be allowed near the King, and then encouraged him onward, sitting back in her seat with anticipation at the spectacle he was sure to make.

What a spectacle it was.

He’d slumped down next to Sansa in Roose’s empty chair, whispering in her ear before shouting out the bawdiest tavern story he could think of, something how about Kings rule kingdoms on their thrones while Queens rule Kings on their knees. He was sure to gesticulate wildly, twist and turn his body to entertain the masses, wanting the more eyes on him the better. 

It couldn’t come back to House Bolton. They had to see the show, so he could perform the illusion.

He’d neatly snatched her cup as she’d blushed brighter than a tomato and shooed him off, and with a pure stroke of luck and the blessing of the gods he’d secured his King’s attention, too. He ambled around the table, before lounging (sprawling, really) across between the King and Queen to repeat his tale for one and all, playing it up as much as he could. He waited for the punch line, and while they all tipped back their heads in laughter, he’d neatly flipped cups once again, this time with the Queen.

Raising his eyes before he turned, he met the narrowed, curious gaze of Dacey Mormont.

Damn.

There was nothing for it, he would have to let it play. He drunkenly stumbled down from the dais, lurking in the shadows once more until the second act began.

Moments later, a river of blood was running from the center of the Queen’s skirts down to the toes of his newly polished boots. 

Double damn. They had just been cleaned.

He’d sprinted back up the dais, yanked his lady out of her chair, and forced her towards the door, all the while keeping his gaze rooted to Dacey Mormont’s. She had one elegant eyebrow raised, but was noticeably silent, choosing instead to sit back in her chair and watch events unfold. He flicked his gaze down to the top of Sansa’s pretty head once before rising it once more, only to find he was granted a miniscule nod.

She would not interfere. She would not protect him, either; but for now, she would let it play, as well.

A tiny nod in agreement, and then he was leading Sansa quickly from the hall, while the wails of his Queen rang out across the stones. 

Roose had flown into the chamber soon after, to find Royce had already gotten Sansa settled in her favorite chair and stirred up the fire so it was toasty and warm. He watched their reunion, noting how unquestionably changed Roose was from his first wife to how he now appeared in that moment, fearful and anxious, kneeling at the feet of his wife.

Roose was afraid. 

In all the years they’d spent together, Royce had never seen the like. 

Royce had thought human emotions like love and fear would make Roose small and weak. It seemed to make him nigh as intimidating and strong as the gods.

Roose had risen when Royce made to excuse himself, and the look they had shared needed no accompanying words of clarification. _Now. Now is the time to unearth the how._

He knew just what to do, and just where to start. Or, perhaps, with whom. 

~*~

The maid turned out to be the easiest mark he’d made in quite a while; the server, a bit more interesting.

The maid was a pretty little thing, all eyes blue as the sky and hair like corn silk, dainty little freckles smattered across her nose. She was angling for a tumble in the hay with one of the stable boys when he’d elected to approach, and it was a simple matter of a charming smile, a wink, and a long, appreciative look at her clearly damned by the gods chest (would they even fit under his thumb? He could forget about his palm, that was for certain), and then she was spreading her thighs on the King’s own saddle, begging Royce to fuck her until even the horses screamed. 

He’d obliged, and much to his disappointment found she screamed rather like a banshee, not in the elegant, feminine manner he’d heard out of his lady, muffled by a thick wooden door or by a silk tent flap.

A pity.

Picturing breasts so round and plump they spilled over the tops of his hands, hair darker than night, and a cunt so sweet he’d drink it for dinner, he’d finally been able to come, pulling out quickly to spill his seed all over her bare thighs. No use taking unnecessary risks.

She’d gazed at him as if they very sun might rise in his eyes, and with a few charming smiles, a few painfully sloppy kisses, and a few shatteringly dissatisfying grazes against her breasts, he’d had her singing like a songbird in July. 

As it turns out, she herself was the one who informed Queen Talisa of Sansa’s potential state. The Queen had promised her that she’d be wed to some lord or knight (and was he available? NO, he’d wanted to scream, as he smiled wide and nodded with a glimmer in his eyes) should she serve the realm well and ensure Sansa Stark remained loyal to the crown. And so, as soon as Sansa requested the maester, the maid had made a stop first in the chambers of the Queen, before ambling along to summon Maester Qyburn. 

Royce had taken particular pleasure in reminding her that Sansa Stark no longer existed. She was Sansa Bolton now. She was their direwolf, they were her men, and in her name, every last traitor to the House would be flayed from limb to limb.

He’d forced her to say Sansa’s name as he’d slit her throat, before he hid her body in the loft. He had one more name on his list, and it wouldn’t due for her to be found before he was ready.

The server, a young man not past nine and ten, provided an altogether far more challenging conquest. Royce had approached with care; one could never be certain which way the wind blew, of course. He’d ambled through the kitchens, charming smiles and teasing remarks bantered about left and right, until the young man returned with an empty tray before wandering back towards the storeroom.

He needn’t have worried.

Royce slipped into the storeroom, made a few thinly veiled remarks about the size of his cock and the man’s pretty lips, and before he knew it his breeches were around his waist and the man was sucking his cock like his very life depended on it.

Funny, that. It didn’t; he was very much going to die.

After he came, he’d pushed the man until his back was against the door, and then slowly ran his fingertips down his chest, smirking as the man’s breath quickened and his already hard cock strained further against his laces. Royce cupped a hand to him, stroking him gently, and soon he was purring like a kitten as he told Royce the story of the Queen’s pretty promises to make him the servant for Oberyn Martell once the kingdom was secure, as the man apparently had quite the cock and quite the mouth, if Royce knew what he was saying. So he’d mixed up the wine as the Queen has requested, folding in the packet of herbs the Queen had given him long ago for just such an occasion when she asked for the “family wine”.

Yes, Royce knew what he was saying. It was delightful to slit his throat right when he was on the cusp of pleasure. Interestingly enough, the man’s cock stayed hard all through the night, and was still pointing stiff as a board when the light of day hit him in the morning.

He’d hung them both, pulling the ropes through the slits he’d cut in their throats, sawing it to and fro until it appeared it was the hanging that killed them. Gods, how he wished he could have flayed them, inch by inch, limb by limb, carving the Bolton name into the flesh of their backs. But it wouldn’t do to be too ostentatious, not when they needed to be sure the Queen couldn’t know for certain or prove who was responsible. The game was far too delicate with the whore-Queen; finesse and cunning were required. He, his lady, and his lord, all had that in spades. When he’d spied the southern gate and noted that directly beyond it was the Queen’s chambers, well, the decision of where to hang them from nearly made itself. 

He hoped the bodies of two of her allies snapping in the wind below her windows, lit by the sunrise, made her choke on her tea.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay!! Real life has really gotten in the way this week. Forgive me! :)

“As you may know, the Queen is doing well and recovering swiftly in her chambers. Though we are saddened by the loss of the babe, Maester Qyburn assures us that the Queen should have no difficulty bearing children in the future, upon her recovery.” 

Sansa smiled demurely as she listened to Robb, and attempted to keep from fidgeting in her seat. She felt guilt over the loss of life and her role in it; though, in all truth, the Queen brought this on herself. Sansa was not the one who ordered wine with moon tea and served it to another woman with child. Sansa was also not the one who switched the cups, nor was she aware of the plot at the time. She had repeated this to herself ever since she stepped foot from their chambers, dressed in one of her finer gowns embroidered heavily with the Bolton sigil. Each footstep down the hall towards the solar had felt like a footstep closer to a reckoning for her part in the crime. A reckoning that, it appeared, was not on its way.

“We do not know for certain who slipped the moon tea into the Queen’s wine, and we are only thankful it was not slipped into Lady Bolton’s as well. The server who was suspected was found hanging from the gate outside, as was some servant or other, so altogether the circumstances are highly suspect.”

Sansa’s eyes flickered over to Roose’s briefly, but she could detect no undercurrent or shift from his usual cool indifference. Was House Bolton responsible for those _circumstances_? His eyes rose briefly, sliding from Robb’s to catch hers in a gaze burning with vengeance, before the flame flickered out, his eyes slid away, and it was gone.

Yes. House Bolton was responsible. It would likely not stop there, either.

“And so, I must ask that House Bolton remain to safeguard and further investigate the attempt on the Queen, in the name of the North. Do you accept this charge, Lord Bolton?”

Her husband was playing the game again. His face was stone, his eyes were cold, and his voice so quiet they were all leaning over to hang onto his every word. “We do, Your Grace. Though I thought perhaps my wife may wish to attend the funeral rites for Lord Tully, as he was her grandfather.”

Robb nodded, smiling kindly in response as he turned to Sansa with a thoughtful look on his handsome face. She slipped into her courtly mask and smiled politely, wondering in the back of her mind what, exactly, her lord husband was playing at. 

“Very well. Sansa, you and a company of guardsmen are welcome to accompany us to Riverrun. We will ride at first light. Maester Qyburn has affirmed the Queen is recovering enough to travel, and will also attend. You may ride with her in her coach if you wish.”

Sansa smiled sweetly, but firmly shook her head. “I find I feel the need for fresh air. If it is no matter, I wish to ride.”

Roose was looking at her sharply now, and Sansa thought she could nearly feel the daggers in his stare piercing the side of her face. She waited apprehensively few beats more, but apparently he decided the matter could rest, for when Robb moved on, he did as well.

“Lady Stark will join us at Riverrun. She has finished treating with Lord Frey, and will bring us news from the Twins at that time.” Sansa’s stomach began to roil at the thought of facing her mother once more, and she paled as she felt her meager breakfast threatening to grandly return all over the oak table in the lord’s solar. 

The chatter continued around her as she focused in on a large knarled swirl in the woodwork, breathing slow and deep as she sought to calm her racing pulse and the whirlpool in her stomach. A nudge to her shoe from the Greatjon brought her up with a jolt, and she felt a sinking sensation as she realized every pair of eyes in the room was upon her, all waiting with apparent expectation.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and a panicked glance at Roose told him she had absolutely no idea as to why they were all focused on her. “Your Grace inquired if you had any business which needs attending, my lady,” he prompted gently, a shadow of concern coloring his unusually warm gray eyes.

She cleared her throat and parted her lips delicately. “Why yes, actually. I was wondering if there were any lemons to be found, Your Grace?”

Robb’s eyes were dancing with amusement, while Roose stared at her as if she had sprouted a second head. Robb chuckled, shaking his head sympathetically. “Unfortunately there are not, Sansa. Craving lemon cakes again?”

She blushed, nodding with an embarrassed chuckle. “I thought it possible, and could not miss the opportunity to ask.” A quick glance at Roose told her he was silently mouthing _lemon cakes_ to himself as if it were something entirely unheard of, and she had to stifle a laugh to attend to Robb’s next address. 

“As we are on the subject, I wanted to share happy news with you and Lord Bolton.” He paused dramatically, searching their faces to ensure they were sufficiently enthused. She felt the sinking sensation swoop low in her stomach once more, and managed to thinly hide her unease as she smiled guardedly and nodded for him to continue. “The Queen and I have spoken and would like to honor you by agreeing to foster your first born with us at Winterfell, as soon as the war is won.” 

Sansa’s smile froze, and the awkward clapping ringing out in the face of Robb’s exuberance was enough to make her turn and lose her breakfast on the dirty stone floor. Roose was by her side in an instant, gently pulling back her hair and leaning down to whisper into her ear “your excitement overcame you. You say that convincingly enough, and I swear to you they will never take our son or daughter.” She wretched once more, before nodding dimly and wiping her mouth with the linen square he held out to her. 

She turned as she rose, a wan smile on her face as she clutched onto Roose’s arm. “Forgive me, Your Grace. That is such wonderful news that I was simply overcome, and unable to control myself. I do hope you’ll forgive the slight, we couldn’t be more overjoyed.”

He was smiling widely now, nodding and overall quite pleased with himself, as he excused the council and strode off to tell the “happy news” to his Queen.

~*~

He slammed open the door to their chamber so forcefully Sansa had to bite back a cry of alarm. He ushered her through, settled her into their chair next to the fire, and then turned on his heel to march back and slam the door once more, this time shut in Ser Royce’s bewildered, handsome face. 

He was pacing, running his fingers through his hair and making it stick up in all directions, and Sansa started to giggle at the sight. He well and truly looked as would a mother hen with her feathers all ruffled over the fate of her chicks. 

He paused in his pacing to shoot her a mild, irritated glare. “Something amusing, Lady Bolton?” Sansa shook her head, smiling to herself when he rejoined his incessant pacing. Several turns about the room once more, he suddenly came to a stop right at her feet. 

“I meant what I promised you, Sansa. I will not let anyone take our child.” 

Sansa sighed, poking an arm out from beneath the furs to take a gentle hold of his hand. “I know, Roose.” He stared at her fiercely, before lightly squeezing her hand and stepping out of her grasp to resume his pacing.

Another few minutes, and he was resting at her feet once more, a peculiar look on his face. “Lemon cakes?” 

She burst out laughing, sighing longingly as she wiped the tears from her eyes, meeting his bewildered expression with one of amusement. “They are my absolute favorite thing in the entire world. Tart and sweet, so delicious you can’t help but savor each and every crumb.” 

His eyes held a bit of a challenge now as he lorded over her, brought up to his full height while she reclined lazily in the furs on the chair. “Your favorite thing?” A note of warning had crept into his voice, and she didn’t bother to hide her smile.

“Well, yes. There’s not much that could win against a perfectly made lemon cake, that I am cert- OH!”

He’d struck like a viper, so quick and sudden that if she had blinked she would have missed it, scooping her up into his arms and stalking purposefully towards the bed. “I am not one to be outdone by a lemon, Sansa,” he growled into her ear, before gently setting her down atop the linens.

She giggled, watching as he slowly undid her laces, before helping her to slide out of the dress until she was naked atop the pillows. He stood next to the bed, removing each article of his clothing one by one, before slowly climbing in beside her. 

There was a reverence in his touch, a tenderness in his kiss, as he traced every inch of her bare skin, from nose to navel, with his lips and his fingers and his tongue. She was moaning at the kisses grazing across her neck and her ear, whining at the teasing nibbles to her nipples, and moaning with abandon by the time he parted her legs and settled himself between her folds. With the tip of his tongue he stroked her passion, flicking and licking and lapping against her pearl of pleasure until she was bucking up off the bed and nearly squeezing his head between her thighs, lost to the slide of his fingers in her core and the pressure of his tongue where she ached and throbbed. He brought her right to the edge, left her hanging on the cusp of her pleasure, before rising up to wrap her legs around his waist as he thrust into her.

He was slow, almost lazy in the pace he set, savoring the feeling of sliding his cock in and in and in until he was in to the hilt, his hipbone pressed into hers, as she squeezed tight around him, welcoming him home. It was carnal and gentle and pure, the way he pleasured her in the afternoon sunlight, a promise for the next time, a goodbye for now. As she finally came, squeezing with her arms and her legs and her core all around him, holding him tight, she felt the tears rolling down her face while she whispered his name. 

A few moments more they were wrapped up together, naked and unconcerned, taking in the sun setting just outside their window. He lazily stroked her smooth shoulder while she traced patterns in the small hairs on his chest. Just before she drifted off to sleep, a rumble of laughter startled her, and she looked up in wonder. “The King announces he will foster our child, and you quite literally vomit at his feet. Well done, my lady. I don’t believe it gets more poetic than that.” Sansa laughed with abandon, slapping his chest playfully as she laughed so hard tears rolled down her cheeks, and he actually _laughed_ with her. 

It would be one of the sweetest moments for her to cherish when they were separated on the morrow.

The thought of Robb brought her up short, however, and it was with a heavy sigh that she decided to ask him what had plagued her since she had first begun to attend the meetings of Robb’s war council. “He is not fit to rule the North, is he, Roose.” It was more a statement than a question, and the soft resignation in her tone told him so.

He sighed, the smile long gone now, and watched her carefully from where she leaned up next to his shoulder. “No, Sansa. He is not.” 

She bit her lip, smiling sadly, and traced several other circles into his chest before flicking her eyes back up for her next question. “That is why you plot with Lord Frey?”

She tried to hold still as he searched her, studying her shrewdly, eyes boring into hers, before he granted her one teeny, tiny nod. “It is.”

She was silent, watching her finger weave in and out of those coarse, salt and pepper hairs on his chest. 

“You agree?” He asked softly, not quite meeting her look of surprise this time.

She thought of asking him to what she was agreeing, but if he meant to address the fact that her brother was running the North into the ground, she had an inkling what the answer might be. Roose Bolton was not a man to do things by halves. He was most certainly in for a penny and out for a pound.

She bit her lip and thought of the child growing in her belly. Of the life that child would face if her brother destroyed the North. Of the life that child would face if they were to lose, and she were one day returned to King’s Landing. Of the death that child would face at the hands of Joffrey.

She nodded, pain in her heart, fear in her chest, and resolve in her eyes. “Do what must be done for our son.” 

He placed a hand protectively over the slight bump on her stomach, twining his fingers with hers. His eyes were hard and bright, piercing as they stared into her own. “Always, Sansa.”

He sat up and placed a tender kiss on her brow. "For our children, and for you."

His kisses this time, though no less carnal, were far less gentle, and as she came undone in his arms on their bed she sobbed out her pleasure for any to hear.


	29. Chapter 29

The sun had not yet risen when Roose woke her the next morning, as abrupt and emotionless as she’d ever seen him. He shook her, though not unkindly, until she was groaning and reluctantly rolled from the bed, ready to wash and begin the journey. When she’d tried to get him to join her in her bath he only shook his head with a roll of his eyes. She’d pouted as prettily as she dared, a twinkle in her eyes, and almost cheered with triumph when he took several steps to press a kiss to her waiting lips, before shooting her a pointed look and striding from their chambers. 

An hour later, Sansa was dressed and wrapped in a new fleece-lined cloak Roose had fashioned for her, a beautiful soft shade of gray that matched his eyes, with white embroidery of the sigil she’d created all those months ago out of direwolves and flayed men. Her gaze flickered briefly to where Grey Wind was resting happily in front of the embers of last eve’s fire, and she quickly sat at their desk to pen out a note, before slipping it inside his collar. 

A knock on the door greeted her just as she was rising back to stand. “Come in,” she called, sliding on her new matching gray fleece riding gloves. 

Her husband and Ser Royce walked in to meet her, and Roose’s eyes warmed with approval as he swept from the tips of her toes up to the braids in her hair. “Your new cloak suits you, my lady,” he said quietly, the hint of a smile playing across his stern face. 

Her cheeks bloomed with a beautiful blush, and she smiled warmly as she made her way over to where they waited near the door. “Thank you. My husband gifted it to me, actually,” she teased, a light in her eyes as she stopped right before him, tilting her lips up for a kiss.

“Oh, is that so?” He said with mock seriousness, the flickering smile growing into a full smirk. “What a thoughtful, tasteful man,” he murmured, before leaning down to catch the kiss she was waiting to give.

“Oh, give me a break,” Ser Royce moaned, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Grey Wind, are they always like this?”

It was the answering groan from Grey Wind as he rose from the hearth that had Sansa giggling with abandon, tucking herself in under Roose’s arm as the four made their way towards the yard. When she saw the dapple gray mare waiting for her, freshly groomed and proud as can be, a wave of excitement raced through her. “Oh, I can’t wait to ride her again!”

Roose’s usual external demeanor had returned, and though he was stoic and expressionless, his eyes were bright. “I’m glad you like my gift,” he said softly, before waving for Ser Royce to leave them for a moment. They were surrounded by the hustle and bustle of a host preparing to leave the yard, and yet Sansa thought she only had eyes and ears for her husband, as he leaned in close to whisper a few final words. 

“I love her,” she breathed, patting the mare’s neck, before turning back to place a shy kiss on his cheek. Not known for his love of any type of public display of affection, she was particularly pleased when he granted her a tiny smile, and took hold of her hand, twining his fingers with hers.

“Ser Royce will be accompanying you, as we must leave most of our men here with me.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he shook his head firmly and continued over her objections. “No, Sansa, there will be no discussion. You are my wife, you are with child, and you are carrying the heir to House Bolton. You will take my best man,” his tone brooked no argument while he studied her fiercely, and she wilted, agreeing with a reluctant nod.

He exhaled firmly, and seemed intent on leaning down to bid her goodbye, when a light tug on his fingers brought him up short. “If you are sending me with your protector, I am leaving you with mine,” she said quietly, already having anticipated this moment, and thankful for her thoughtfulness. He began the same posturing of objections, but a mild glare and her next words made him sigh heavily and agree, just as reluctantly as she. “You _are_ House Bolton, and as you said, I am with child. If I am sick with worry for you, that is not good for the babe, is it? Now, I will worry far less if I leave you in the hands of my second best man.”

He looked at her with suspicion, meeting her wry grin head on. “You, my lord, are of course the first.” He snorted with amusement at that, before rolling his eyes and leaning down to press a light kiss to her brow. 

No words were spoken as he lifted her up into her saddle. She caught his hand as he turned to walk away, leaning down to press it tight to her breast, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. His jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed slightly, before he nodded firmly and gently slid from her grasp, turning and making his way to the King at the front of the host. Sansa blinked back tears as she watched him go, before an all black stallion picked its way up to block her view. 

“He is dreamy, isn’t he?” Ser Royce teased, his starry smile making her giggle and chasing the rest of the tears away. He smiled in response, kindly and pleased. “Come now, my lady. It is time to be Lady Bolton, not Sansa. Roose said to remind you that the flayed men protect their lady wolf.” She smiled with a pleasant blush, shaking away the rest of her sadness and steeling her nerves for the journey ahead, as the host began to ride from the yard. “And quite a wolf, our lady is.”

~*~

Several nights after they’d departed, Roose paced his chambers anxiously, his eyes flickering between the chair by the hearth and the bed of furs. His plans were advancing smoothly with Lord Frey, and if his King accepted the proposal, to which Roose had no doubt he would, that stupid boy, then he would reunite with Sansa once more at the Twins in a month’s time. It was all coming to fruition, each carefully laid piece of his puzzle falling into place, and his blood was up at the thought of how close success was for him to grasp. 

He sighed with disgust, realizing that no serving wench or tavern whore was going to slake his thirst. He was well and truly lusting only for his little wife.

_Sansa_. Had she found her letter yet? He’d felt quite pleased with himself for forcing Royce to wear it in a little leather necklace, thinking she’d find it quite amusing he’d stuck a note for her around the neck of his dog. Royce, of course, was not amused. 

That made it even more enjoyable. 

Roose plopped down in the chair, allowing himself to envision her reaction, when the direwolf butted up into his hand, bumping him repeatedly with the collar he’d less artfully replicated. He scratched him absentmindedly, his mind walking through the steps he had to walk once he reached the Twins, until the insistent nudging made him huff with exasperation. Tilting to admonish the beast in his lap, his eyes lit up on the collar.

She hadn’t… Had she? 

He undid the string, and a little peak of parchment blinked up at him. That little minx. 

More greedily than he’d care to admit, Roose tore into the note his wife had left him.

_Roose,_

_How long did it take this time for Grey Wind to force you to check his collar?_

_You are not one for displays of emotion or affection, and I know that forcing you to endure such a moment would surely drive you to some self-defeating action or a fit of distraction. Thus, I’ve chosen to write the words I wished to say to you in the yard._

_I strive each moment of each day to make you and our House proud._

_I may not be pleased with the roads we must travel, but it eases my mind knowing I travel them (though not physically in this instance) with you at my side._

_Know that I think of you and miss you more each day we are apart. Know that in my heart I forgive you for your transgressions, many though they may be (ha! I bet you cracked a smile here). Know that there is none other I would wish to call husband, this day, or any other day, for the rest of my life. Know that the thought of bringing your babe into this world fills me with the greatest joy I have ever known._

_Know that I am, and always will be, most devotedly yours._

_Sansa_

He sat there, with his wife's direwolf on his lap, and his wife’s note in his hands, grinning like a hopeless, besotted, utter fool.

~*~

The reunion with her lady mother was infinitely more painful that she had even dared to imagine. She’d been seated in the lord’s solar with her “Uncle” Brynden, her Uncle Edmure, and her brother Robb, breaking their fast, when her mother had strode in, appearing every bit the lady of the castle. Her expression was fierce, her eyes burning with unmitigated fury, and she’d collapsed into Robb’s arms, sobbing at the loss of his first born child. Sansa had sat, uncomfortable though composed, knowing Ser Royce was a silent shadow at her back, watching as her mother tore out chunks of her hair and wailed in her grief. Robb had comforted her, holding her tight, until finally the tears abated, before telling her he had happy news to brighten her spirit. Did she know that Sansa and Roose were expecting? 

The ferocity of the glare her mother sent her direction had Ser Royce reaching for the hilt of his sword, before Sansa waved him off. Spit flew angrily from her mouth when she turned on her with more venom than a viper in Dorne. “You _dare_ to flaunt your heir when your brother lost his? You stupid, ungrateful little child!”

Robb was aghast, the Blackfish was bewildered, and Edmure looked on with empathetic pain, as Sansa sat there, immovable as stone, stoic behind thoughts of flayed men before her, while her mother railed and screamed before collapsing into another fit of tears. Robb mumbled her apologies as he and the Blackfish carried her from the room, alluding that she was anguished over the loss of Robb’s child and did not know or mean what she screamed.

She knew. She meant it. 

It was the final time Sansa would allow her mother to break her heart.

~*~

Later that evening, as she dismissed the maids and prepared for bed, a soft knock sounded on her door, followed shortly by Ser Royce. He slipped in with a warm smile, ignoring pretense to march directly to her and fold her in for a warm and comforting embrace. 

It was in that moment that Sansa burst into tears. 

“She’s my mother,” she sobbed, fisting her hands in his linen tunic, while he patted her back and hushed her soothingly, rocking her gently as she spent her tears. “She’s my mother, and she hates me, and she hates the child I carry.”

He sighed heavily, remaining silent, until her final tears had fallen. Only when he’d gently tucked her into bed, and sat next to her, did he speak. “Something died in her when your lord father died, Sansa,” he began quietly, taking a gentle hold of her hand. “She does not hate you, not truly. But something died within her; something shifted; and she’s not the mother who raised you from birth. You see that, do you not, my lady?”

She hiccupped and nodded, fresh tears streaming, for she did see it. She and her mother may not have always been close, nor had she ever been her mother’s favorite, but before she’d departed for King’s Landing, there was familial affection there. The woman she encountered when she was finally returned to Robb’s host was not the woman she last saw when she left Winterfell. That much was painfully apparent now. 

“I have something for you from Roose. He said I would know the moment I should alert you to it, and I believe it is that time.” Sansa’s eyes flicked in hopeful confusion, and he smiled embarrassingly as he lifted her hand up to the leather strap tied around his neck. “He thought you’d enjoy that he made he wear it, like you do Grey Wind, that bastard.” 

She snorted and giggled with amusement, lightly untying it until it folded open to reveal a parchment note. “I will leave you now, my lady. Stay strong, the flayed men guard your door this night.”

She smiled, already unfolding the parchment, before calling softly to the door. “Thank you, Ser Royce. For everything.”

He smiled gently, swinging open the door. “For you, my lady, it is well and truly my pleasure.”

As the door clicked shut, she dove into Roose’s note.

_Sansa,_

_If you’re reading this, it means you have faced a difficult time, and require words of encouragement and comfort, neither of which I am presently able to provide. I have two guesses as to what (or who) caused your discomfort, though it matters naught._

_What matters is that you are the wolf incarnate, Lady Sansa Bolton. You are fierce, you are wise, and you are strong. You bow to no one. You will not be tamed (though it is my distinct pleasure to try, but that is a letter for another time)._

_You will handle whatever situation you find yourself in with dignity and grace, the epitome of elegant strength and steel refinement. You will make your husband and your House proud._

_I am not known for my strength with words of affection, my lady, as you have no doubt become intimately familiar. So I will leave you with this._

_You are the finest Lady the Dreadfort has known, and I am honored to be your Lord._

_Roose_

There were tears in her eyes when she snuffed out the candle, snuggling close under the furs, holding his letter into her chest. That, she reasoned, was a letter that would make even bards swoon. 

She thought on Ser Royce wearing the words of affection around his neck for the past fortnight, and could not help but roar with laughter before drifting off to sleep, thoughts of her husband and unborn babe keeping her warm through the night.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised smut if I posted on Fridays, but I’ve separated our lord and lady! I hope you’ll enjoy the creative approaches I’ve taken this chapter in an effort to follow through. ☺

The nights were made for wolves. 

As his lady was the wolf herself, he thought it more than appropriate that he endeavor to uphold her causes as one of her pack. So he found himself, on the prowl, ready to howl with a young travelling companion of Lady Stark’s at the moon. 

She was a pretty little thing, with her honeycomb eyes and her shining brown hair, a maid who had been in Lady Stark’s employ since before even the Bolton forces joined King Robb’s host. Lilly? Or was it Leanne? 

She was tittering with another of Lady Stark’s maid in the corner of the kitchens, trading whispers and secrets, giggling as they both shot furtive glances in his direction. Louisa?

Both young ladies were batting their eyelashes in his direction now, and he had to bite back a smirk as he took another draught of his wineskin. 

Perhaps, he could howl with two young wolves this night.

All in service to his lady and his lord, of course.

Royce dropped the wineskin and rose from his seat, stretching broadly before sauntering over with a winning smile to the current objects of his affection. They were blushes and giggles and smiles before he’d even said a word. 

“Good evening, darlings. I heard it might be cold this evening. What is it your House says? Winter is coming?”

The giggles and the smiles and the blushes continued, along with blatant appraisal and unrestrained desire. “Why, yes. Are you implying that isn’t all that will be coming this night, Ser Royce?” It was the taller one, a blonde with big green eyes and freckles on her nose.

Yes. Two young wolves would provide better information than only one, certainly.

“I certainly hope not, my dear. As a night in service, I must offer my assistance in keeping you warm. Would you perchance care to join me in my chambers?”

A maid on each arm, he sauntered down the hall, much to the envy of half the lads of the castle.

~*~

The mouthy one was sucking his cock, swirling her tongue and humming and moaning as if he tasted divine. He was on his knees on the pallet, thrusting into her eager little throat, while he watched the mousy brunette lay on her back behind, playing with her sweet little cunt at the sight of her friend’s mouth on his cock and her dripping wet cunt in front of her face.

He groaned when she slid her teeth up his shaft just right, causing little pulses of pleasure to shudder out from his tightening balls. The brunette (Lois?) was getting close, he could smell it, fingers sliding in and out, faster and faster, and without warning he flipped the brunette in front of him, so her mouth was pointed towards her friend’s tightening cunt while she was splayed open on all fours in front of him. He thrust in without warning, fucking her hard and quick, while she sucked like the greedy little bitch she was on her pretty little friend’s dripping cunt. The recipient (Lanna?) was twisting her nipples, pinching between her fingers and thumbs, moaning to the point it was nearly obscene. 

There was nothing elegant about the way whores screamed. It was nothing like what he heard Roose draw from his lady.

The brunette came first, her juices gushing all over the greedy mouth of the bitch he fucked with abandon. She lapped them up, licking up every last drop, before she came with a clench and a shudder and another distasteful, exaggerated groan. He sighed, deciding he’d had enough, and spilled his seed with a grunt, a little disappointed that even two pretty wenches just didn’t quite scratch the itch he’d been having. 

His charming smile back on, he gathered them up into a tangle of limbs, pulling them back on the bed.

“Now, where have you two darlings been, and why haven’t we been doing this each night?”

Another fit of giggles, before (Lindsay?) slapped his chest playfully. “Why, we were with Lady Stark, of course. Visiting the Twins.”

He rumbled with laughter, rolling his eyes inside, tickling the blonde who was truly gifted when it came to sucking cock. “And how did you find dear old Walder Frey, hmmm?”

“Oh, that man is simply _vile_ ,” Lynette (is that right? Lynette?) replied, adding a shudder for good measure, just in case he wasn’t quite certain. 

“You were gone for so long, my darlings, I’m surprised he didn’t keep you forever,” he purred.

Truly, it was easier than peeling the skin from a baby. 

The big titted cock goddess responded this time, with a hushed whisper as if she conveyed the juiciest of secrets.

Which, of course, she did.

“Well, we should have been gone sooner, but that greedy old man wished for King Robb to set aside his marriage to the Queen. It wasn’t until Lady Stark agreed that Lord Edmure would marry the daughter of his choosing that he finally released us from that awful place. Though we must return soon after Lord Tully’s funeral rites.”

He murmured his agreement, before heaping platitudes to their beauty. A few more licks, a few more fucks, and then they were snoring soundly, while he slipped from the room and made his way to Sansa’s just as the sun crept over the horizon.

He sighed, realizing it was going to be another long day before he could rest. Those two bitches howled so loudly they chased away the moon.

Jeanette! That was her name. 

Or was it Jessilynn?

~*~

“My lady, might I have a word?” Royce poked his head into her chambers just as Sansa’s maid was finishing the last coil in her hair.

“Certainly, give us one moment, Ser Royce.” He nodded, shifting to take a seat by the fire, as the maid finished primping until Sansa was ready for a second round with her lady mother at the funeral rites. 

A few minutes more, and they were alone.

“Please, speak freely, Ser Royce,” she said with a patient smile, as she turned from her perch by the dressing table to grant him her full attention.

He cleared his throat, and eyed her through intense steel eyes. “I’ve uncovered the deal your mother made with Lord Frey to secure his men for your lord brother, and thought you should be made aware.”

She paled at the mention of her mother but nodded quickly, urging him to continue. 

“It seems she’s agreed to marry Lord Edmure to the daughter of Walder Frey’s choosing, and after the funeral rites we will depart for the Twins.”

Sansa’s heart started to pound as the blood rushed from her face to pool at her feet. “I see,” she said slowly, attempting to conceal her shock. Her mind raced as thoughts of Roose’s plot and her mothers swirled and swirled until she was spiraling towards what might be most certain doom, though for whom she couldn’t yet say. 

A slight clearing of the throat snapped her back, and she blinked away the fog to grant Ser Royce her brightest smile. “Thank you, truly, for bringing this news to me in advance of everything today. I do not know how House Bolton would function without you.”

He smiled broadly, pushing up to stand with a wink. “Well, perhaps you might mention that to your lord husband, hmm? I’m thinking my services require an appropriate increase in payment, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Sansa rolled her eyes and giggled, accepting his outreached hand as he gently helped her to stand. “Indeed,” she replied drily, a teasing sparkle in her eyes. 

As they made their way to the great hall, her thoughts turned back to the deal her mother had made with the Stranger. “Poor Uncle Edmure,” she said softly, squeezing Ser Royce lightly on the arm. “He always seems to get the blunt end of the sword.”

He hummed in response, and granted her a brief smile before leaning down to whisper in her ear as he pushed her into the hall. “Perhaps you could show him some kindness, hm? That may go a long way.”

She smiled gratefully and made her way forward, her heart in her throat, anxiety in her belly, as she took in the sight of her mother with the King and Queen.

~*~

The funeral rites were nothing noteworthy, but the events at the funeral pyre were positively disastrous.

Edmure shot flaming arrow after flaming arrow as Lord Hoster’s boat floated further into the distance, each time missing by more than a small amount. The Blackfish finally put him out of his misery, much to Edmure’s dismay, jerking the bow from his hands to fire an arrow directly into the boat, setting it aflame.

Edmure was flushed with shame while her mother and Queen Talisa and King Robb bit back titters of amusement. As they made their way back to the keep, Sansa felt her heart swell with pity. 

Poor Uncle Edmure. Shamed at his own father’s funeral rites, and soon forced to marry a woman of another lord’s choice.

She held back a few steps until she could join him towards the end of the recession, twining his arm with hers with a gentle smile. “It could happen to anyone. He was your lord father; it is natural to be overcome with grief.”

He scoffed at that but she swelled with pride when a tiny smile ghosted over his handsome face. “Thank you, niece. Though it appears most do not share your opinion.”

Sansa squeezed his arm gently, granting him another understanding smile. “Since when does the opinions of others matter above our own?”

A glimmer of appreciation flickered in his, and she felt him study her fully as they made their way back in the direction of the lord’s solar. “Roose Bolton has changed you,” he said quietly, without malice or judgment.

She smiled fondly in agreement. “Yes, he has. And if I listened to the opinion of others, I would be forced to think that might be for the worse.”

As they made their way into the solar and took their seats before their King, he quietly mumbled in her ear. “For the better, my lady.”

~*~

Once the estate was settled, Robb dismissed a majority of his council and family from the solar, with the exception of the Blackfish, Catelyn, and Sansa herself. Edmure was sent like a petulant child to await the news second-hand, even though Sansa was fully aware the news was of his own fate.

Yet another reason she knew Robb was not fit for the crown gracing his bouncing curls.

Her mother was blunt and to the point, and for that Sansa was grateful. “In exchange for the provision of the service of his men to the crown, Lord Frey demands you wed Uncle Edmure to the daughter of his choosing.”

The Blackfish paled, Sansa gazed down so as not to give herself away, and Robb scoffed with disgust. “I most certainly will not.”

Her mother’s voice was iron, and Sansa was reminded of so many lectures about love and duty and a woman’s place in marriage, not so long ago. “You must, and you will. It is the only way, Robb, and you must take the Rock. You must defeat Tywin Lannister, and end this war for good.”

Sansa watched carefully, noting with a sinking heart that the Blackfish was nodding along in agreement, fully wrapped into the folly that was her brother’s rule. “Edmure is no catch; I’m surprised Lord Frey wished to tie his house so low.” 

Their chuckles, quite literally, hurt her heart.

Sansa was silent as they briefly deliberated, but of course the path was clear. Edmure must marry a mystery Frey.

Robb had sealed his doom.

Edmure was summoned, and apprised of his impending marriage as if it were no more noteworthy than the weather. He’d blustered, and fought, and threatened, but in the end, he’d agreed.

One did not say no to a King.

Robb dismissed the meeting, heading in the direction of the rookery to send a raven to Roose notifying him of the need for them to march to the Twins. Sansa pulled Uncle Edmure aside, leading him silently down and out to the gardens, where they would not be overheard.

“I am truly sorry, Uncle Edmure,” she began quietly, full of compassion and sorrow. He did not deserve to be treated this way by his own Uncle, sister, and nephew. Nor did he deserve it from his King.

He sighed in resignation, granting her a grateful smile. “It seems we are both nothing more than pawns for the King and his cronies to play with.”

She smiled ruefully at that, nodding in agreement. “Indeed. Though, I will say that my arrangement worked out quite well.”

He snorted at that, giving her a long look before granting her a gentle smile. “As I’ve said. You know, I was always quite impressed with the Lord of the Dreadfort. Terrified, but impressed.”

She giggled with a grin in response, and could not help but answer, “that is most certainly as he wishes it, I believe.” 

They shared a conspiratorial laugh, before he pulled her in for a tight, quick hug. “Thank you, Sansa” he whispered into her ear. “Thank you for being a friend when I had none, and an ear when I needed.”

She hugged him in response, before pulling away with tears swimming in her bright blue eyes. “I know what it means to be alone around family, and I wish that for no one, Uncle Edmure.” 

His jaw clenched as tears filled his eyes, and he blinked them away with a gruff cough and a broad smile. “Come now! I’m sure you’ll be wanting to send your own note to your lord husband, hm? Several weeks away is too long, and all that?”

She giggled, twining her arm with his. “Any time away from Roose feels too long,” she said wistfully, laughing when he rolled his eyes and pretended to gag. 

“I suppose, marrying a Frey, I won’t be subjected to that unfortunate problem. It is a pity though. I was so hoping for a more exotic match.”

Sansa filed that thought away for later. If she was on to what Roose was planning, perhaps that might be arranged?


	31. Chapter 31

Sansa pulled the furs around her tighter as she listened to her mother and the Queen droll on and on extolling the virtues of silks versus lace, velvet versus furs, and so on and so on. She wished she were anywhere else but here, riding alongside two women who clearly wished she too were elsewhere, but there was nothing for it. She’d vomited so violently she’d nearly slipped her seat in her horse, and Ser Royce, dripping with said vomit, had brooked no argument when he used a pocket square to wipe her clean before sending her into the riding litter.

“Trust me, Sansa, I’m not doing you a favor, I’m doing _me_ one,” he had insisted, much to her dismay. “Can you imagine if you were to actually fall from your horse from your sickness with the babe? I shudder to think whether Roose would flay me before he took your head, or after? Perhaps he’d mount us both on spikes, two lovely new posts for the Dreadfort, hm?” It was that imagine that had her spilling what was left of her stomach anew, and he hadn’t batted a lash before cleaning her up, steadying her nerves, and gently lifting her into the litter.

“You will be fine,” he’d whispered softly, arranging all of her furs and tucking her in like she herself were the babe. “Remember, if they bother you, just vomit on them directly. You have quite a good aim, if memory serves me.” He’d given her a wink and a broad smile while she glowered balefully, before gently shutting the door behind him.

She needn’t have worried, in truth. Her mother and newfound favorite daughter were far too wrapped up in themselves to pay much notice to her, and eventually she’d been content enough to drift off, rocked to sleep by the wheels of the coach.

~*~

The King’s host road across the bridge at the Twins, and as Roose studied the approaching company through an eyeglass atop the battlements, he felt his heart sink into his stomach.

Where the gods was Sansa? 

He’d spied King Robb and Queen Talisa, the Blackfish and Lady Stark behind, followed by the rest. He even spied Ser Royce, chatting amiably with Edmure Tully. What he could not spot, however, was a bright flash of auburn atop a dapple-gray mare.

Where was his wife?

He searched once more, certain he’d simply missed her among the front of the host. Surely, she would ride at the front. They wouldn’t dare slight him so far. She wouldn’t stand for it. He scanned, the eyeglass swooping along the lines, until the lone dapple-grey mare tied to a cart came among the rear. 

He paled, equal parts anger and fear raising a war drum in his chest. Was she hurt? Was it the babe?

Was it something worse?

He didn’t pause a moment to consider the litter rumbling on just behind Ser Royce and Edmure, instead racing down the battlements two steps at a time, with thunder in his eyes and pain in his heart, desperate to meet the host and learn news of his wife.

~*~

By the time the wheels had stopped and she heard the hustle and bustle of the dismounting of the host, Sansa was nearly green. If she never stepped foot in another travelling coach, she was certain it would be too soon. While the rhythmic rocking had lulled her to sleep more times than naught when they’d first begun the journey, it soon became the very bane of existence, one sharp jolt being more than enough to send her into another fit of releasing the contents of her stomach. 

The babe was trying to kill her. And she loved him. Or her. Or them. She just _loved_. So much it nearly _hurt_. She was so teary thinking about it, the little lord or lady swelling her belly, giving her a bump that Roose would surely notice immediately upon their arrival. 

One time, she thought she may have even felt it _move_.

She’d been delighted, lighting up like a yuletide tree, excitedly gushing to the Queen and her mother and inviting them to feel when the little shift happened once more.

Not even their disgust or disinterest could tamper her enthusiasm, and so, much to her mother’s horror, she’d called for Ser Royce, inviting him to lay a hand and feel the babe. 

He, most certainly, had reacted with the appropriate amount of awe and excitement, cooing right along with her that certainly only the brightest, most beautiful or handsome babe would be able to move in such a remarkable manner within the womb. 

Ser Royce was possibly the truest friend she’d ever had. 

Sansa could scarcely contain her giddiness when the door was opened and she slipped from the coach, hand on her swelling stomach poking out of her coat of furs. She did not notice the mud coating Lord Frey’s yards, nor did she notice the cacophony or chaos around her. Her eyes only sought out the others (with the exception of Ser Royce’s and Grey Wind’s- the thought of leaving them out nearly brought tears to her eyes) that mattered most. 

As the Greatjon greeted her, she did not even bother to contain her disappointment, though she did manage some semblance (she hoped) of a smile. With a gentle nod of understanding, he’d pointed her without a word in the direction of her husband.

All she saw was Roose’s back as he marched back into the hall, with his King and his Queen, leaving her alone in the mud and the drizzle of rain. 

She promptly burst into tears.

~*~

He impatiently listened to his King’s report, nodding and agreeing with what was probably his worst attempt at feigning interest in his entire life.

Where in the flaying _fuck_ was his wife?!

_Edmure was to marry a daughter of Walder Frey’s choosing._ Well, he knew that, thanks for that tidbit.

_Lord Hoster Tully’s funeral rites were very moving._ Great, who the fuck cares.

_The weather had delayed their journey longer than intended, but they hadn’t encountered any Lannister raiders. Wasn’t that fortuitous?_ No, you stupid dolt. It meant Lord Tywin had something up his sleeve, and wasn’t bothering risking his own men in the meantime. Gods, you are a fucking fool, aren’t you?

_Where were their apartments? He and the Queen wished to bathe and rest before joining Lord Frey for the welcoming feast._ Did he look like a fucking maid? A castellan? A butler? 

_I'd like to begin plans with Lord Frey immediately for how to take Casterly Rock, and could you set up a meet?_ WHO THE FUCK CARES?! WHERE IS MY WIFE YOU BLOODY IDIOT?!

_Also, the Queen has already begun to plan for when your child fosters with us at Winterfell. She’s never seen it, of course, but she’s heard stories, and has so many ideas…_ I can’t wait until your blood drips down my sword you fucking- wait… The babe. The babe! 

“Pardon me, Your Grace. I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence, but how fares Lady Sansa? I had not noticed her in the yard.” Tell me where my wife is or I will slit you from navel to nose and I will dance in your blood and wear your skin this day and all my days you sniveling twat. 

King Robb was smiling graciously, and Roose had to strongly fight the urge not to sneer in response. Or strangle him. Or both. Actually the strangling might make him positively gleeful. 

“Of course, Lord Bolton!” He replied happily, causing Roose to rapidly blink away thoughts of murder. That could wait. For now. “Sansa has been quite ill, so she travelled in the Queen’s litter. Please go and find her after you’ve assured I may speak with Lord Frey before we begin the feast. I wish to meet with him in private.”

“Certainly, my lord,” he mumbled, already bowing as much as was proper, before turning on his heel and marching towards the great hall.

~*~

After receiving an unceremonious _no_ from Lord Frey regarding his King’s request to meet in private, Roose had sent one of his men to notify Robb and request his and his Queen’s presence before Lord Frey in the great hall at eight, with the feast to follow.

Now, he was traipsing about the castle, wandering aimlessly in search of his wife. He’d begun in the yard, thinking it logical to start from her last known whereabouts, and received a confusing report of her sobbing and being carried by Ser Royce in the direction of the keep. 

He’d wandered the great hall, the kitchens, the chamber that had been designated to her, hells he’d even climbed to the battlements, all to no avail. 

A sneaking suspicion made him blind with rage. He was now stalking, sword drawn, in the direction of the chamber designated to Royce.

He marched down the hall, not caring one whit for the frankly terrified glances shot in his direction from every page and maid scurrying about the dank corridor. He cared only for the moaning coming from beyond the last door on the right.

Without bothering to pause, or _listen_ , he thrust open the door, sword alight, and charged in with death in his eyes and fury stealing his blade.

Face to face with Royce, reclined in his bath, fucking the hells out of the maid who’d drawn it.

Royce hadn’t even bothered to pause in his thrusting as he rolled his eyes with a broad grin, muttering _you’re both bloody fools_ , and pointing him in the direction he’d least expected.

Sansa was in his own chambers. Royce had settled her there immediately after departing the yard. 

Why hadn’t he bothered to check there?

~*~

After a tearful reunion with Grey Wind, who lapped each salty drop up with sweet swipes of his tongue, Sansa had settled herself quite comfortably in Roose’s appointed chamber. There was certainly no need for her to be elsewhere, she’d informed the bewildered maid. She would be sleeping here. Her things should be here as well.

She’d received owlish blinks and barely concealed smiles, but they hopped to her bidding, and now Sansa was greedily eyeing the bath that was drawn in the large clawfoot tub she’d been told was reserved for only the highest of Lord Frey’s guests.

She did not want to ponder right now why she herself was included amongst them.

Instead, she inhaled the scent of the rose petals scattered about the swirling water, before immediately shucking her gown and her shift, dismissing the maids as she circled the tub. Just as she was depositing her smallclothes on the floor and debating how to maneuver into the tub without bumping her belly or unsettling the babe, the door burst open, revealing a harried and very much disoriented Roose. 

His eyes were wide as saucers, his hair pointing out in all directions as it did when he’d run his hands through it furiously, and he was breathing as if he’d run at a dead sprint from wherever he’d been hiding.

He had, though she didn’t know it at the time. 

He stood there, door ajar, drinking in the sight of her, from her glowing smile, to her heaving, full breasts and erect nipples, to the bump protruding from her middle, down down down to the tips of her toes before sweeping back up once more.

A flutter in her middle brought his eyes snapping back, and she reached out a hand with a tender smile, beckoning him forward.

He seemed to walk in a daze, still not shutting the door, and she bit back the sigh of impatience as she took his hand and gently placed it on her middle. He moved slowly, almost reverently, across her swelling skin, until he pressed in just slightly, and received an answering flutter straight into the palm of his hand. Happy tears streamed as she smiled so wide her cheeks pained, and his small answering smile of joy warmed her so completely she thought she might burst there on the spot.

Until a startled cry at the door had him turning with such ferocity Sansa couldn’t help but giggle, as he marched across and slammed it shut in the face of a nosy maid. Apparently thinking better, he swung it back open and murmured a few words, before slamming it shut once more. 

With a sigh, Sansa began once more to contemplate entry to the tub. It didn’t take him more than a moment, before he was by her side, holding her hand tightly as he gently helped her step into the bath, hanging on until she was settled and reclined luxuriously in the tub. She inhaled deeply, smiling as she sighed with relaxation, resting her head on the lip of the tub and poking her feet out to rest over the edge. She heard him shuffle about the room, and then suddenly he was seated on the stool behind her, his bare arms with the sleeves rolled up coming round from either side of her head as he pressed a tender kiss to her hair. 

“I missed you,” she breathed, leaning back a little further and puckering her lips. He snorted and indulged her, giving her a soft kiss before submerging his hands to run them down the full length of her middle.

“You’ve changed,” he said quietly, with a small amount of appreciation warming his tone. She smiled, shutting her eyes and relaxing into the heat of the water and the warmth of the hands sliding over her skin. 

“I have,” she agreed, before poking him a bit in a teasing tone. “Was that not what you were hoping for when you sought to get me with child?”

The rumbling sound emanating from the back of his throat hinted that he did not appreciate the sarcasm, but when she peaked through her lashes she saw the warmth in his eyes and the flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. 

His next words brought tears to her eyes as they tugged at her heart. “I’ve never actually witnessed or experienced the changes before,” he whispered softly, the reverence in his tone as he cupped her straining breasts making her nearly dissolve into tears.

She brought her hands up to wrap around his, leaning her head slightly to rest against his upper arm. “I’m glad you are now, with me.” 

The feel of his stubbled cheek rasping along the smooth skin of her neck made her jump and shiver with excitement, and she was panting when his fingers began to lightly play with her tender nipples, caressing and kneading as he licked up to her ear. “As am I.” His voice was like gravel, his words like honey, and she was slick between her thighs long before his fingers quested around the curve of her middle, down to part her folds. 

He petted and teased, his fingers sliding through her wetness, ghosting over her bud of pleasure before sinking into her heat, and she tossed her head back to moan with abandon as he suckled along her neck and brought her to release. One hand massaged her breasts will the other played between her thighs, and she rode his hand as he pumped his fingers in and out, in and out, faster and faster, until she was screaming in his arms, fluttering and pulsing as she came so strongly she bit her lip and bled. 

While she collapsed back into the tub with a sated sigh, he took the opportunity to lather up a cloth, and began to gently scrub away the dirt and stress and strain from her travels from her weary skin, until she sparkled and shone. Just as he began to tease the cloth between her thighs, a dangerous glint in his eyes making her heart nearly pound straight out of her chest, a soft knock sounded at the door. He cracked it open before sneaking in a tray and shutting it softly behind him.

Her eyes lit up as the scent wafted towards her, and she was salivating long before he brought the first small cake up to her lips for a taste. When he made to pull it back she saw red so quickly he hurriedly pushed it back between her lips, and before she could protest the lemon curd burst into her mouth as the glaze slid across her tongue.

Her moan was so languidly delightful she saw him adjust the front of his breeches, but she eagerly opened up for another sinful, amazing bite.

“Oh, _Roose_ ,” she sighed, swallowing back the rest of the first lemon cake. 

He looked quite proud of himself, a teasing smile and warmth in his eyes, preening at her side as he took a bite of one himself. He appeared puzzled for a brief moment before rolling his eyes heavenward, shaking his head and indulging her with the remainder of the cake he’d sampled.

“Too sweet,” he mumbled, flinching when she turned on him once more in a rage. “For me. Too sweet for me,” he hurried. “As long as you enjoy a balanced diet, certainly you must enjoy the lemon cakes, Sansa.” 

She nodded, savoring each and every bite, before turning on him with dancing eyes and a hint of confusion. “I thought there were no lemons?”

She watched as the smile tugged at his lips, but he fought valiantly to contain it as he reached for a towel and motioned for her to rise. “They were delivered to Lord Frey directly from Dorne, and accompanied by a most interesting companion, a Lady Grey Allyrion, daughter to Ser Ryon Allyrion and his wife Ynys Yronwood. Apparently, she was looking for adventure, and opted to accompany the shipment to see the North.” 

Sansa hummed in interest, studying his expression as he scooped her from the tub and swept her in the direction of their bed. “Yes. An interest from Dorne in the affairs of the North. Provides interesting fodder for thought, no?” 

Sansa nodded in agreement, already starting to pant as he undid the towel and laid her bare, unlacing his breeches and removing his tunic before climbing in on top of her, carefully holding himself up from her rounded belly. “She might be the first individual Royce is happy I send him to interrogate.” 

Sansa’s giggle was stifled with a throaty moan when he thrust into her heat with abandon, sheathing himself to the hilt. As she chased her pleasure and came apart once more in her husband’s arms, Sansa wondered if she would ever grow tired of the feelings he brought out of her each time they were together.

When he gently rolled her to the side and gathered her into his arms, she decided she most certainly would not.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm finally back in action, and sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter. I had a lovely vacation, and a much needed rest, and thank you all for your patience!

The day dawned in a haze of gray fog, blanketing the world beyond the keep and coating those who ventured out to the yard. Even the birds were silent, the chill in the air seeping in through the cracks of the keep to chill its’ inhabitants to the bone. 

Sansa rose with a heaviness in her step and a weariness in her heart, sitting at her dressing table to allow the flurry of maids to primp and flit about, dressing her in all her Bolton finery. It was the day of Edmure’s wedding, a day which should be filled with sunshine and smiles and all the happiness and excitement one could desire.

It was a day as cold as the night that would follow. 

~*~

Her tongue circled the head of his cock as she ground her cunt down into his waiting mouth. Royce lapped at her pearl of pleasure with finesse as she sucked and stroked and teased, bringing him closer and closer to a much needed release. He felt her soft heat begin to clench around his fingers as he thrust up hard into her silken mouth, his head starting to spin as the pleasure nearly blacked out the purpose of this encounter.

An interrogation.

Yes. He was here to interrogate Lady Grey. 

He groaned as the wench slid her teeth along his shaft, and abandoned all pretense as he closed his lips around her pearl and sucked once more, curling his fingers as he thrust them in and sent her over the edge. He licked up every last drop as she bucked and keened, coming hard as the little temptress kept hold of his cock, sucking and working him over so that he was muffling a grunt and coming right along with her.

She turned and crawled back over his chest with a saucy smile and a glint in her eyes, and he felt his cock already stirring anew as she slid her wetness all over his thigh. They tasted their pleasure as their lips and tongues danced and played, and with a growl of excitement he flipped her on her back and threw her knees over his shoulders.

Interrogations could wait. She was likely harmless anyways. 

~*~

Sansa threw on her black robe and padded out into the hall in search of Roose. Certainly he was just in the solar at the end of the corridor? The maid had indicated he had a gift for her, and she wished to receive it prior to dressing just in case it went better with one gown over another. As she neared the cracked door a rustling in the little outcropping to her right drew her eye, making her flush and stifle a cry of alarm.

Blocking out the window was a busty blonde serving maid, lifted high in the air. Her skirts were rucked up about her waist, her legs were thrown over quite broad shoulders. 

Oh, _gods_. Her eyes were screwed shut and her face contorted with pleasure, while the Greatjon licked between her bare thighs. He was groaning, moaning into her as he pressed her up against the window frame, holding her high while she clutched at his shaggy mane and panted in earnest. 

“Is there something I can help you with, my lady?” Roose’s baritone purred into her ear, lilting her into a trance as she watched the maid’s legs clench tighter, her whines coming faster as she clawed the windowpane. Sansa’s breathing hitched as Roose’s lips traced over the shell of her ear. 

“Perhaps we should retire to our chambers?” 

She could only gape as she felt him gently twine her arm with his. He tugged her along back towards their room with a smirk and such heat in his eyes her heart nearly pounded right out of her chest. It wasn’t until the maids were shooed and the door was gently shut behind her that her mind finally snapped back from what she had seen. “Roose?”

Her cheeks flushed crimson when she spun around to his knowing smirk. “Yes, Sansa?”

“I- um, that is to say- well, I-“

With each word she forced out he took one step closer, until her back was pressed right up against the wall. “You what, Sansa?”

She smiled ruefully when her cheeks flamed and gave him a slight push as he raised a mocking brow. “Oh, gods! I was looking for you!” 

An answering hum rumbled from his chest as he leaned forward to press his lips against the curve of her neck. “It appears you found a good deal more than you expected, my lady.” 

Her giggle broke off in a sigh as his teeth and tongue traced up towards the back of her ear. She felt the ties of her robe give way, and before she realized she was bared to her shift, shaking with excitement before his hungry gaze. His lips pursed into a playful frown, and she giggled once more when he shook his head and sighed. “A pity.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed, a gleam in his eyes as he shrugged. “You’re far too big for me to lift you over my shoulders. Why, I doubt even the Greatjon could-“ she cut him off with a shriek of laughter and a smack to his chest, bubbling with joy when he scooped her into his arms with a growl and stalked towards the bed. 

“Your words are quite hurtful, my lord! I am in fact sensitive about the changes!” 

His eyes were a warm gray as he gently set her on her feet, pushing her shoulders down and bending her over until her forearms rested on the edge of the bed and her arse was high in the air. “Forgive me, my lady. I will have to make it up to you.” 

With his fingers circling her pleasure and his cock in her heat, he most certainly did. 

Twice.

~*~

An hour later, Sansa wrapped her robe around her growing frame once more, sighing with pleasure as she watched Roose adjust his tunic and breeches. As her mind wandered she remembered why she’d sought him in the first place.

“Actually, Roose, I truly did have a purpose when I came looking for you. The maids mentioned you had a gift for me, and I was to seek you out.”

His smirk should have warned her; he was in quite a humor on this dark day. “Was that not enough of a gift, Sansa?” 

She rolled her eyes with a saucy grin, tossing her long auburn curls over her shoulder. “Very funny. I must begin to dress soon and need to know if it will affect what I wear.” 

Quick as a flash, he slipped a pouch out from an inner pocket of his doublet. Her eyes swept over the odd look on his face in bewilderment as she excitedly opened the velvet strings. 

What was inside nearly stole her breath.

It was a silver circlet, a pattern of X’s all around, woven with diamonds and small drop pearls. It was dainty and simple, elegant and refined, and so perfect Sansa burst into tears. “Oh, Roose. It is the most beautiful piece I’ve ever seen.”

He pressed a kiss to her cheek and whispered shyly in her ear. “It is made with some of the House jewels. And it is nowhere near as beautiful as its owner.” As she smiled and studied the circlet with wonder he began to bid a hasty retreat, quickly fasting the rest of his buttons and picking up several items from his desk. When he turned to her once more, he was reserved and distant; having slipped back into the mask he showed those beyond their door. “Now, after the ceremony, you are to feign a headache or some other malady, and retreat to our room. You will bar the door and remain inside with Grey Wind, and you are not to open it for anyone other than Royce or myself, no matter what you hear or who approaches. Under no circumstances are you to attend the wedding feast. Do you understand?”

The gray from the dawn seeped back in to chill her bones, and she nodded gravely, ignoring the pit gaping open in the small of her stomach. “Yes, Roose, I understand.” 

He nodded once, the matter settled. “I will come to collect you in several hours.” As he left the maids returned, and they set once more to the task of readying Lady Bolton for the marriage of her Uncle to Roslin Frey.

~*~

“And you’re certain the raiders are _Lannister_ raiders, boy?” What in the seven hells was Lord Tywin thinking? Why send raiders the day their plan is to come to fruition. A warning, perhaps? A signal to cease? 

Certainly not. No matter how you looked at it, the death of the King in the North would benefit the Lannisters and the crown. 

“Lord Bolton, I wonder if you should lead a force to counter the raid?” Seven fucking hells. How was he to deny his King?

In the end, it was Lord Frey who denied him. “Would that not be disrespectful, boy, to have your sister’s husband, your kin, lead the attack when others are present who are not so closely tied to this union?” Interesting. Perhaps the old fool was not as much a fool, after all.

King Robb blustered only for a moment before muttering a brief apology and turning to the rest of the council. “Lord Umber, Lady Mormont, perhaps you will band together to mount the response? I wish you to ride immediately to meet the raiders in the field. You may keep what you collect.”

So his lady wife’s allies would be absent, after all? That would certainly spare the uncomfortable moment when they must bend to the Bolton’s or lose their heads. He had not been looking forward to testing their allegiance to his lady so soon, and during a moment with such high stakes. Perhaps this allowed for a subtler dealing?

As the Greatjon and the lady warrior stormed out into the hall, barking orders and preparing to ride, Roose could not help but swell with anticipation. Perhaps the gods were on his side, after all.

~*~

The ceremony was a plain affair, devoid of the pomp and circumstance Sansa expected would likely surround the wedding feast. Dressed in a gray and white gown embroidered with the flayed man-direwolf sigil she’d created, she wore her hair in a thick loose braid over one shoulder, the circlet woven throughout atop her head. It had not gone unnoticed by her mother or the Queen.

“My, isn’t that a beautiful circlet, Lady Bolton,” Queen Talisa purred, jealousy flaring in her dark eyes. 

“Yes, it certainly _crowns_ your head quite well, Sansa,” her mother agreed, the undercurrent clear in her sweetly pronounced sentiment.

“Thank you, Your Grace, mother. It was a gift from Lord Bolton in honor of Uncle Edmure’s wedding.”

“How _kind_ ,” Queen Talisa simpered, turning with a bitter smile to approach King Robb to walk back towards the great hall for the wedding feast.

“Kind, indeed,” Sansa heard her mother echo, as Roose took her arm and began to guide her away from the dark looks and dark thoughts shooting their direction.

As they approached the great hall, Sansa pressed a hand to her midsection, bringing the procession to a halt. “Forgive me, my lord,” she said loudly, “I- I’m not feeling well. I believe I should retire to rest.”

Roose agreed quietly, steering her away and in the direction of her room, before sharp words from Queen Talisa brought them up short. “Quite right. Lord Bolton, Lady Sansa! Lady Stark has shared that you are likely just hungry. Please join us for the feast, and if you are still suffering, you may retire after once the merriment begins. You wouldn’t wish to miss your own Uncle’s celebration, would you?”

She felt Roose’s entire frame tighten as he stiffly turned to escort her back to the party. “Certainly, Your Grace.”

As they took their seats at the feast and Sansa slid her arm from Roose’s, she couldn’t help but note the odd texture of metal divots under his doublet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnnnnnnn


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers!! First of all, I would just like to thank you for bearing with me. I've had a rough monthly in both my personal and professional life, and unfortunately any desire I had to write creatively flew out the window. I'm finally ready to ease back into it, and wanted to start out with the chapter you've all been waiting for. Thank you for your patience, and I sincerely hope I meet with your high expectations! This chapter is extra-long to help make up for the wait! :)
> 
> _All you have is your fire_  
>  And the place you need to reach  
> Don’t you ever tame your demons  
> But always keep them on a leash 
> 
> _-Hozier, Arsonist’s Lullaby_

Royce’s eyes flitted about the room as the feast increased in raucousness. He met the glittering eyes of his new Dornish Lady, flashing her a grin as he ambled in the direction of the Bolton men traipsing about the lower trestle table they’d been assigned. 

“Enjoying Lord Frey’s hospitality, are we, lads?” 

The boyish grins and jaunty slams of cups bespoke of merriment and overindulgence, while the glints in their eyes shown with crystal clear intent. “We’re about finished with the feasting, though we could do with more wining, Ser,” Steele called from the end of the table. 

Royce exaggerated a wink and a bow as he slammed down his cup in agitation and called for more wine. “I’m thinking as we’ve eaten our fill, now we must drink our fill, and then we shall dance the night away in the arms of these pretty darlings as soon as the bards pick up. What say you?” He gestured wildly to the blushing, twinkling serving maids, while glancing pointedly towards the where the bards were settling in on the alcoves overhead.

Steele’s smile was shrewder than a cat’s as he tipped his now-full glass back and tossed a maid across his lap. “I’m thinkin’ we’ve been waitin’ to dance all evening, and we’d best get on with it.”

“Aye,” Royce called, before turning to saunter towards the back of the hall, meeting Roose’s wandering gaze over his shoulder with a tightening of his jaw.

“I’m thinkin’ we’ve been waitin’ and are ready, too.”

~*~

Sansa’s skin was starting to crawl from anxiousness and anticipation, and she could not help but thank the gods that at least it was Roose seated next to her lady mother, and not she stuck between them. She’d choked down a few bites to appease the Queen who kept watch the next table over, but in all actuality, Sansa could scarcely wait to flee to their chamber as soon as the moment presented itself. 

As her eyes flicked about the hall, she noticed with trepidation that the dais was just beginning to clear, most of the wedding feast having been devoured. The tensing of the large thigh pressed up against her own told her she was not alone in her observations. 

“Perhaps it is time for you to retire, Lady Bolton,” Roose murmured to her left, pushing back from the table and grasping her elbow. 

Just as Sansa was about to agree, a commotion drew their attention back to the dais, making Roose freeze midway up to standing.

“And so, we will forgo the bedding ceremony, and will bid you goodnight!” Lord Frey’s old voice cackled through the hall. 

Sansa’s eyes widened in alarm as she shot an anxious gaze up her shoulder to her husband. She should be long gone by now, surely.

The sight of Roose’s ashen complexion made her meager meal roll violently, threatening to once more make an appearance, as he slipped back down into his seat. 

“Roose?” She murmured, careful to pitch her voice low and soft in his ear. 

“Do you trust me, Sansa?” He asked quietly, eyes narrowed as he watched Lord Frey begin to signal for a few trestles to be moved for the dancing to begin. Sansa paled, barely restraining the fear as her hands started to shake. Though his posture was relaxed and his expression bored, his eyes were piercing as they flickered down to bore into hers. 

“With my life,” she whispered fiercely, clinging to the mail through his sleeve, steeling her jaw and settling her nerves as best she could.

He flashed a soft quirk of his lips, his own tiny version of a smile, as he leaned down to press a soft kiss to her cheek and whisper in her ear. “Do as I say and it won’t come to that.” 

As she relaxed back into her seat and rested a hand atop her swelling babe, she gazed about the hall once more, the first plucks of the Rains of Castamere floating from above to swirl about the floor.

~*~

Something was amiss, Catelyn was sure of it. She knew this song, knew it in her very bones, but warm with wine and food she just couldn’t quite place it. She sharply searched the hall, but noted nothing amiss in the happy smiles of her son and his wife, in the relaxed bawdiness of the men behind, in the sleepy gaze of Sansa as she watched her husband at her side.

Her husband.

Even Lord Bolton seemed relaxed, his fingers twirling through Sansa’s flowing hair down her back. He sipped his wine, and it struck Catelyn as odd that not once had she seen his cup refilled. 

As she swept the hall once more, all these thoughts swirled together until with a jolt it clicked into place, just as Lord Frey lifted his hand to cease the music.

The Rains of Castamere. 

~*~

Roose’s nostrils flared in heady anticipation as Lord Frey addressed King Robb, droning about a gift to honor the King and Queen. With a smirk and a quick shift in his seat, he noted the horror dawning in Lady Stark’s Tully blue eyes to his left. 

Her mouth was opened in an “Oh”, the color draining from her cheeks, as he glanced pointedly from her and down to his left sleeve, raising a brow. 

He could not contain his smile as she gently lifted his sleeve to reveal the mail he was wearing underneath. Even the smack of her palm stinging his cheek couldn’t dampen the blood rising in his breast as she started to shout in warning. 

The bitch was too late. 

The doors were slamming shut, the weapons were filling the hall, and he, Roose Bolton, would be victorious this night.

While the arrows rained down and Lothar Frey slashed Queen Talisa’s throat, he shoved Sansa down behind the table and made his way to finally take down the boy who played King.

~*~

She was frozen in place, shaking in fear, feeling everything and nothing all at once as she watched the blood stream from where Talisa’s neck once was, while arrows pierced her brother’s chest. She watched him from where Roose had shoved her down, watched as he crawled through blood and dirt to skid his knees in the blood of his bride. Watched as the arrows bouncing her husband’s way flicked off his chest to land harmlessly on the stone floor. Watched as Royce stabbed his knife right into the neck of one of Robb’s banner men, his head lolling down to rest in his leftover plate of food, as Royce was already turning to take down the next man.

Sansa watched it all, crouched and dirty and wishing nothing more than to be safe in her chamber, nose and fingers buried deep in Grey Wind’s thick wiry fur. Watched as Lord Frey cackled with glee and raised his hand to stop the arrows. Watched as Robb sobbed and cowered and finally grasped the reality she had known deep down was imminent since the day had first dawned, what felt like a lifetime ago.

A King he had entered, proud and tall. 

A corpse he would leave, soul mutilated and destroyed.

She felt it as the fingers clawed their way into her hair from behind; felt it as the nails raked her scalp and brought tears to her eyes; felt it as the tip of the knife pierced the lily white skin of her throat; felt it in her very bones as her mother yanked her up to stand, holding her as a human shield before her, bringing her husband and Lord Frey up short.

“Stop!” She heard her mother scream behind her, panic in her tone, the knife shaking dangerously in her grasp.

Sansa felt the babe in her belly flutter wildly as her pulse raced and a droplet of blood wound its way down her throat, staining the white lace edging on the breast of her gown. 

She heard her mother beg and plead behind her, offering herself in place of her son. 

She watched her husband pause as he raised his knife in the direction of her brother’s breast, his eyes hardening dangerously as they followed the trail of blood down its crimson trail to the stain the top of her gown. 

She heard Lord Walder bark with laughter from the top of his bloody dais. Watched the wheels turning as he pondered this development, while her mother screamed and wailed behind her. 

“Release her,” Roose called quietly, jaw clenched firmer than stone, eyes hard and bright. 

“Release my son!” Her mother wailed, jabbing the tip of the knife in a bit deeper, causing a few more drops of blood to flow. 

“Oh, what do you care, Lord Bolton? We can find you another wife! We Frey’s are a fertile lot!”

She saw Roose’s jaw clench tighter, his eyes glinting dangerously as he took another step further, further from her, closer to Robb where he was rising to stand. “Release her, Catelyn.” He was so soft, so quiet, hard as steel, chilling the room as he warmed Sansa’s heart, calming her fear.

“If Robb is not allowed to leave this hall, I will slit her throat Lord Bolton, I swear it!” 

Sansa’s throat constricted painfully, her hands slipping to guard her rounded belly, one sliding in the slit in her gown and along her thigh. 

“If you take my babe, I will take yours, I swear it on the old gods and the new!” Fear clenched Sansa’s heart painfully, and she knew without a doubt the death she had to deal to save another.

Roose’s head tilted thoughtfully, his face an emotionless mask, and as she fingered the knife in its sleeve she heard Lord Frey cackle and rub his palms with glee. “What should that matter, woman! Lord Bolton, if you lose your lady wife, it would be my honor to replace her with another. Hells, I will even pay you her weight in silver for her dowry, my Lord!”

His gaze was calculating, his expression cold, but Sansa noticed his eyes flicker approvingly to where she was slowly sliding the knife out of the folds of her dress. 

“What were you promised, Roose?” Sansa asked meekly, her jaw hardening as she forced terror into her tone. Just a little longer, and she would be able to jam the knife into her mother’s throat as she twisted out of the way, just as Dacey taught her. 

“Yes! What is it, Lord Bolton? Did Tywin Lannister offer to make you Warden of the North? Because a Bolton could never hold the North on their own!” Her mother taunted, the knife shaking in her tiring grasp.

“What does it matter, woman! You won’t be around to see what happens, your head will be hanging from a pike beyond my walls!” Lord Frey’s irritation was plainly apparent, and he was ready to make the next move to favor the Frey’s with Lord Bolton.

“Mother!” Robb called out weakly, staggering to his feet. 

A nod from Roose, and she was spinning, turning to her right and driving her shoulder into the chest of her mother as she drove her dagger straight through the center of her neck into the hollow of her throat. 

The blood cascaded down, gushing over her fist, as her mother croaked her last breath and watched her son fall with his hand to his side to the floor, her husband’s knife coming away slicked with the King’s blood.

A slow applause mingled with the warbled cries of the last dying Stark men, and she turned numbly to face Lord Frey. “Very well done, my lord! Now, finish off your lady, and let us celebrate as we choose your next bride!”

Roose’s smile was cold while his eyes burned bright, and he marched towards her with such purpose that for a moment, she truly believed he would do as Lord Frey asked. The panic brimming in her eyes brought him up short, and his look was reproachful as he frowned in disapproval. “Sansa,” he chided, giving a slight jerk of his head in the direction of the dais to someone beyond her left shoulder. 

Tears pricked her eyes, fear shook her hands, until she saw the warm gray chase away the frost, thawing his countenance until it was them and them alone, surrounded by and ready to rise above a room filled with the dead. Dead Kings, dead dreams, and dead promises.

She heard Lord Frey prompt Roose once more, and a sudden stillness settle over her as she knew what must be done, knew the choice Roose was asking her to make. 

“He may make you Warden of the North,” she called out clearly, strength radiating out of her very core, “but I and the babe in my belly will make you King.” 

His smile was genuine, and he had eyes only for her as Lord Frey choked on her words and the blade Royce pushed through the back of his neck, blood warbling out to dribble down his chin and stain the messy front of his robes. “Aye, Sansa. Just as I and my House and my sword will make you Queen.”

Her heart pounded in her chest when she saw the gleam in his eyes, filled with lust and pride and something else she couldn’t quite name. His hand was warm and his grasp was firm as she slid her hand into his outstretched reach, stepping past the corpse of her mother as he nearly dragged her towards the top of the hall. Cheers of “long live the King!” and “long live the Queen!” from the Bolton men as they slaughtered the stunned Frey’s rained upon their backs as Roose hurried her in the direction of their chamber and a waiting, whining Grey Wind.

~*~

She felt the blood dripping down in a slow, small tide from the knick in her neck to seep into the white and gray fabric of her gown. A few soothing licks from Grey Wind, a few kind words from his lady and his lord, and he was once again curled up peacefully in front of the roaring fire. 

She glanced towards Roose where he was scrubbing his hands into a full basin of water, and noted with alarm the blood streaking down her pale cheek in the mirror’s reflection. “Roose,” she called out quickly, rising to rush towards the glass.

“Hush, Sansa,” he murmured, bringing a damp cloth up to her cheek, wiping gently until she was clean. “It is not your blood, just as none of this is mine.” At his gesture, her eyes truly took in his form, and the blood stains made her mouth run dry.

“This, however, is very much your blood,” he said sternly, heat flaring in his eyes as anger flushed his cheeks. Delicately settling her on the bench in front of the mirror, and with more tenderness than she’d ever witnessed since she’d known him, he began to dab and wipe away the blood that had congealed on the slope of her neck and the top of her breast. 

She was panting well before he was through, and judging by the bulge in his breeches, he was just as affected by her presence as she was by his. “Roose?” She called coyly, eyes warm in invitation, skin flushed by his attentions only moments before. 

He swallowed thickly, his expression drawn as his eyes danced about the room. “I should leave you now, Sansa. My blood is up from the night, and I… I must leave you now.” He’d taken three steps towards the door before she quietly called his name once more.

As he turned on his heel, reluctance written plain as day all over his angular face, she pulled the ties of her gown, letting it slip off her bare shoulders, down to pool on the floor.

His groan had wetness dampening the tops of her thighs. “By the gods, Sansa,” he murmured hotly, eyes drinking in every inch of skin, from the tips of her toes, up the tops of her thighs, across the thatch of hair and her swelling middle, over her heaving, full breasts, up to her glittering eyes. “Not even a shift?”

The slow smile that spread over her rose red lips had him crossing the room before he even realized he’d moved. As his hands gripped her tightly and his eyes continued to roam her body, he groaned against the crown of her hair. “I cannot be gentle, Sansa,” he pleaded, eyes piercing, fingers tightening their grip nearly to the point of bruising.

“I do not recall asking you to be,” she whispered breathlessly, cheeks flushing with excitement as he growled and briefly shuttered his eyes. 

“You will be the death of me,” he ground out, voice hoarse with lust and need. 

Her teasing smile nearly brought him to his knees, as she reached up to whisper in his ear, “as long as you please me first.”

She had no warning before he was spinning her around, fingertips bruising the curves of her hips as he shoved her over until she was splayed across the bench, resting on her forearms and her tiptoes as he slammed into her with no preparation at all. His thick cock pounded right into her dripping cunt, his grunts and groans filling her ears as she whined and bucked for more while he pounded her hard and fast for all she was worth. 

Her legs were shaking, her eyes were rolling, as her body quivered with need while he chased his pleasure faster and harder between her thighs, each slamming thrust of his hips making the bench bounce loudly into the dressing table. She was close, so close she nearly begged, until he did something that had her screaming for the gods.

_Smack._

His palm stung the taunt flesh of her backside as hips kept thrusting their brutal pace. 

_Smack._

His palm stung the other cheek, and her answering scream of pleasure made lean over to chuckle darkly in her ear. 

_Smack._

She was shaking, she was soaring, she was so close she was nearly over the edge, her body screaming, clenched around him tighter than mail.

_Smack._

“ _Please_ , Roose, so close, I’m so-“

His hips slammed into her as the hand that had stung her backside slipped around the front of her hip to dip between her thighs, tugging hard on her swollen bud of pleasure. One last thrust and they were both lost, a mixture of moans and groans and sighs as she screamed his name and he moaned hers and they both found the release they had only ever found with each other alone.

It was only his strong arms that kept her upright, and while she collapsed into a muddled pool of pleasure he scooped her up into his arms and carried her towards their bed, gently settling her down and sliding in beside her. As he tucked her into his arms and tugged the blanket up around him, she couldn’t call the words back as they slipped from between her sated lips. “I love you, Roose.”

~*~

He was still catching his breath as she drifted off to sleep, and he finally let out a sigh of relief as he heard her softly start to snore.

_I love you, Roose._

Somehow, despite all that had happened this night, that revelation stunned him most of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*Anxiously taps fingers on keyboard and awaits your feedback....*_ ;-)


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, happy readers!! I hope you enjoy the next chapter of Possession. I've taken the time to sketch out where we still need to go, and have returned fresh and ready to finish this story. :) 
> 
> Thank you for your patience!

She sat in front of the dying embers of the fire, Roose’s cloak pulled about her tight for warmth. She listened to the sounds of the man and the wolf she loved most as they each called with answering snores in the darkness of the night.

Oh, what a night it had been.

She couldn’t mourn for the person her mother had become, but she could mourn for the woman she’d thought her mother was, the woman her mother could have been.

She couldn’t mourn for the King her brother had become, but she could mourn for the brother he was, and the Uncle he could have been.

Brushing aside a few tears, she listened to the soft snores, her hands roaming comfortably over her swelling middle, feeling each kick of the babe. She supposed in all likelihood, her and the babe were the last two Starks, though they were Boltons, the babe and she. Sansa sighed, her head and heart twisting between love and honor, duty and family, faith and hope and mourning, until she was once again on the verge of tears.

A soft touch sweeping the hair off of her neck and over her shoulder shook her from her reverie.

“Perhaps a dance, Sansa?” 

He sounded nearly timid behind her, and she couldn’t help but smile when remembering the first and only time they’d danced, on none other than her own wedding night. “There’s no music, Roose,” she chided him gently, a soft smile playing about her lips in the twinkling firelight.

His hand slid down from where it was teasing the tresses of her hair, over the fur of his cloak, until he could take her hand and pull her up to stand. He pushed the cloak to the chair, turning her into his arms and leading her in a soft, slow step around the rug in front of the fireplace. 

Sansa started to hum.

Soft and slow, sweet and gentle, he turned her about the floor, while a mindless melody floated around them. Thick, slow tears rolled across her cheeks, dampening the linen of his tunic, while she lost herself in the comfort of his arms. She knew this was her one moment of vulnerability, and she meant to fully savor it.

Whether it was three minutes or three hours Sansa wasn’t sure, but after a time his steps slowed until they were nearly stopped. He tipped up her chin, brushing his thumbs over her dried up tears as he cradled her face in his hands, before meeting her lips for a kiss. 

Once again soft and slow, sweet and gentle, he stole her very breath as he once more stole her heart. 

He tugged her back to bed, sliding beneath the sheets to bury himself between her spreading thighs. As she sighed and arched into his embrace, Sansa couldn’t help the words that sprang forth unbidden to mingle in the air between them.

“Say you won’t let go, Roose,” she whispered. “Say you won’t leave me too.”

He answered her words with kisses as he thrust into her core, until she was arched and shaking, clenching around him and pulling his pleasure out with her own. 

He settled her once more, wrapped up tight in his arms, her back to his chest. He slid his hands over to gently rest atop the babe swelling her middle.

“Never, Sansa,” he whispered quietly into her ear. “Whether I am there or not, you will never be alone.”

~*~

Apparently, the Lady Warrior and the Great Oaf were already more attached to his lady wife than even he or Royce had surmised. 

They’d returned from their skirmish with Lannister raiders, reporting that all were eliminated. In the light of day, they realized that the leader they had slain was none other than Lancel Lannister himself, causing Roose to pause in surprise as a blur of questions circled his mind. 

Tywin not only sent raiders, but had them led by his close kin? Curious, indeed.

They’d blanched and swallowed his story whole when he told them of how Lord Frey had plotted to slay the King, of how he and Sansa were caught in the cross hairs, and of how his men were able to defeat the threat and keep them and as many of their allies alive as possible.

They were noticeably silent in questioning why only Bolton’s and Frey’s were armed.

They were even more silent in questioning whether truly everything had been done to save the King and Queen.

In the end, it was reassurances from Sansa and from none other than Lord Edmure Tully himself who set the warriors at ease. He himself saw tears in Sansa’s eyes when the Greatjon raised up a shout for the new King and Queen of the North, answering calls echoing thunderously throughout the hall.

Roose knew he would need to tread cautiously in his dealings with Tywin Lannister, more so than he had initially suspected. He was not naïve; he fully understood that the North belonged in the North, and he had no interest or business ruling the whole of bloody Westeros. Tywin, however, would likely not simply pass off the North to Roose now that the first King was deposed.

He saw, however, that he was now the keeper of the gate, so to speak, with regards to the Twins. And keeping the Twins caused him to consider tentatively engaging in yet another unlikely alliance, all due to his lady wife.

Once they travelled North, he would leave Lord Edmure, who was mysteriously now free of his unwanted bride, as lord and guard of the Twins.

~*~

It was nothing and everything like she feared it would feel like, all rolled up in one. The tightness started in her back, tiny little spasms that rippled around to the front of her abdomen, causing her to clench up and forcing her to breathe light shallow breaths. Her muscles would stiffen for as long as it took her to count to thirty, before easing up as if they had never tightened at all.

“And you’re sure you feel no pain, Lady Bolton?” The maester was gently probing between her thighs, and she could hear Roose pacing just beyond the chamber door.

“Y-yes,” Sansa replied, breathing through yet another uncomfortable tightening. 

“How would you best describe it?”

Sansa thought hard as she tried to relax, ignoring the delicate fingers lightly probing her below. “Well, it is as if… Oh, this will s-s-sound silly,” she finished with a grunt as the breath left her during another spasm.

“Do not worry, Lady Bolton. The most candid explanation is often the most accurate.”

If Sansa wouldn’t have feared Roose would flay him alive, she just might have hugged Maester Qyburn. “It is as if I am sprinting and carrying something extremely heavy, and then I set it down and feel fine again, before I am off sprinting and carrying again.”

He nodded with a gentle smile and removed himself from beneath her robes. “It is as I suspected. Shall I deliver the news to both yourself and Lord Bolton at the same time?”

“King,” she cut in sharply, an eyebrow raised in challenge.

Maester Qyburn fought to contain a shudder of surprise, not quite believing how closely he may have just come to losing his head. “Certainly, my la- Queen.”

Roose joined them shortly as Sansa settled more comfortably amongst the furs. “Well?” His face was sharp, his eyes were narrowed, and Sansa realized with alarm that he appeared remarkably pale as his thin fingers clamped down tightly around her outstretched hand.

“My King, there is nothing to fear. The Queen is simply experiencing a few contractions, lightly from all of the excitement she’s endured of late. A few days rest, and plenty of fluids, and she and the babe will be fine.”

Roose sagged visibly with relief, and Sansa felt his grip tighten nearly to the point of crushing the delicate bones of her fingers. “Will she be able to travel to the Dreadfort?”

Maester Qyburn shifted uncomfortably, darting a glance between the new King and Queen of the North before hesitantly shaking his head. “I would not recommend it, Your Grace. That distance might be too far and take too long. Perhaps there is a place en route where she may rest the final months before delivering the babe?”

Roose nodded once before turning on his heel to face Sansa, effectively dismissing the maester. Sansa raised an eyebrow in question as she heard the door open and shut softly once more.

“You are not to leave this bed.”

It was a statement, not a request, and Sansa had to fight back a roll of her eyes. “Yes, Roose.”

“And you are not to engage in any activity unless it is absolutely necessary until after the birth of the babe.”

She nodded amicably, trying and failing to completely hide a smile. “Yes, Roose.”

“And you are to cut out lemon cakes.”

At that, her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed, before he finally amended the command with a soft grunt. “Cut back on the lemon cakes, perhaps?”

There, that was more of a question. She nodded in agreement, blue eyes sparkling up to meet his gray. 

When he turned to go, Sansa lightly tugged his hand, causing him to glance over his shoulder. “I do not wish to deliver our child here, Roose. I cannot.” The sudden rush of emotion, thinking of delivering where her last family members lost their lives, made her nearly collapse into a heap of tears.

His nod was so miniscule as to be invisible, but his words brought out a smile more radiant than the summer sun. “I suppose you will be getting your wish, my Queen.”

He squeezed her hand and stalked towards the door, mind already turned to the myriad of tasks waiting beyond the chamber walls. “There will once again be a Stark in Winterfell.”


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaaaaaaack.
> 
> Thank you for your patience.

“Roose, if you force me back in that contraption I am positive I will perish,” Sansa proclaimed loudly, the threat of tears stinging her eyes while her arms gestured wildly. His lips turned down in a frown in response, both at her use of his given name and at her display of emotion, all in front of the men. They were on their way to Winterfell, their first journey as King and Queen, and they needed to behave as strong, composed leaders for the North.

In truth, based on the occurrences of their journey thus far, he knew he needn’t have worried. 

His little wife was spoiled rotten, while entire kingdom and following were madly in love with her. She was delivered any and every desire, all with a smile and stars in their eyes. Good gods, even the cold Bolton men granted smiles and bows for her, while one actually _carried her_ over a puddle. 

She did not need to know he’d had the man whipped for daring to touch his wife in a circumstance where it was not paramount to her safety and life.

Nor did she need to know that the idiot had accepted the whipping gladly, loudly proclaiming a few scars were naught as long as he were able to honorably continue to serve his Queen, while his compatriots actually _cheered_.

Despicable. Not that he wasn’t pleased with their loyalty, but seven bloody hells. 

In fact, he truly believed they couldn’t give a fig for who was King, as long as Sansa were Queen.

That thought ruffled his feathers and only served to make his frown more severe. With a frosty tone, he gave her a withering glare. “You will ride in the litter, my _Queen_ , for the good of the babe.”

He observed her fisting her hands in her gown, and her cheeks bloomed pink in what he only wished were shame or embarrassment. No such luck, he thought wryly, as her jaw clenched tight and her eyes blazed wide. She was in a rage, and according to Maester Qyburn, this unfortunate temper may very well continue until several months after the babe is delivered.

He sighed, wiping his hand down his travel weary face. It appeared he would yet again be sleeping elsewhere. After he flat out refused to send for more lemons until they reached Winterfell because she’d devoured the entire lot, and it was positively _ridiculous_ to assume they could acquire them on the road, she had unceremoniously pointed towards her mascot’s bed of furs, telling him that once he found the lemons, he could find his bed.

What made him think it was imperative they travel together? Why hadn’t he agreed when the Greatjon had jovially suggested he and his King travel ahead to ensure all is prepared? 

He didn’t want to ponder too carefully why he’d found himself bunking with his men rather than telling _her_ where _she_ could sleep if she did not wish to rejoin _him_ in _his bed_.

Another glance at Sansa, and he sent up a prayer of thanks that Royce was intervening, offering to ride in the coach with her and entertain her with stories of their childhood. 

Bringing a child into the world took a toll on more than just the mother, it seemed. He was itching to flay something, 

~*~

“Now, settle yourself in and I will regale you with tales of a wild young Roose and an innocent young Royce in the Dreadfort,” Ser Royce proclaimed, gesturing with a grin as he helped Sansa arrange herself amongst the furs. She giggled, piling them around her just so, and couldn’t help but nearly burst to tears when he brought out a surprise from behind his back.

Cradled in his hand was a whole tray of little lemon cakes, all for her and her alone.

She heard his snort of amusement as she whipped the tray into her little cocoon, and found she simply couldn’t bother to be embarrassed. “Just between us,” he whispered conspiratorially with a wink, shooting a glance out the window to the gatekeeper of her oppression.

Sansa eyed Roose’s back as he picked his way back up to ride at the front with Dacey and the Greatjon. “Most certainly,” she agreed with a grin, before giving him a nod, “but you have to tell me your source! How on earth did you secure these?”

Ser Royce flashed a grin and held a finger to his lips. “A gentleman never tells,” he said with a waggle of eyebrows. “Though you may want to pass along your thanks to Lady Grey,” he added with a wink.

Sansa let out a bubble of laughter, shaking her head. “You, sir, are every bit as trouble as Roose warned me. Now, you promised me stories?”

“Ah, yes,” Royce settled himself back on an elbow, resting on his side on the opposite end of the coach. “Let’s see, where to begin?” He pursed his lips in thought, tilting his head to rest his chin on his fist. 

Several hours later, and Sansa was bursting with laughter as another story ended with “so you see, it was all Roose’s idea, and I was but the innocent whipping boy forced to accompany him and take the punishment as we let every last horse free from the stables just as the hunt was set to begin.” She had a feeling there was a bit more to the story, but she’d had that impression for the past several stories, so that was no surprise. It seemed to her they all ended with a laugh on her part and a faintly downturn expression on Royce’s face, as if the true story hadn’t quite finished yet, but it was all he was willing to share.

She’d let it go previously, but this time she was drawn to prompt him. “Is the ending truly this happy this time, Ser Royce? You make the Dreadfort sound like a joyous home from a fairy tale, and the ‘whippings’ as you call them nothing more than a slap on the wrist.” 

He was thoughtful and nostalgic, though she could tell he was trying to shield her from perhaps the more painful truths. “Nothing like your home, I am sure, my Queen, but it did have its moments.”

She smiled as he stared out the window a moment, lost in his thoughts. He could keep this secret; she would not press further.

He sighed, before jolting back with a start. “Now! Where do we begin with the next tale? You may choose my dear- stories of our first escapades with wine, or stories of when Roose lied to our headmaster and made _me_ suffer the consequences, when I was, yet again, just a poor, innocent companion.” 

Sansa rolled her eyes before a thought that had been nagging her all afternoon finally fully surfaced. “How long _have_ you been with Roose, Ser Royce?”

At that he paled and shifted uncomfortably, before lifting a shoulder in a light shrug. “Another tale for another time, my Queen,” he attempted to continue. 

This time she was not having it. Narrowing her eyes, she could only raise an eyebrow until he sighed heavily. “I will not tell you the whole of it, but in order for you to understand, perhaps we begin elsewhere, yes?” Something shifted inside her, and with a sinking feeling, Sansa rested a hand on the babe and nodded for him to continue. 

He hedged a bit, before nodding as if he seemingly came to a decision, and sat up straight. “What do you know of Ramsay Snow?” He asked bluntly, expression closed and unreadable. 

The sudden change in topic startled her, but as Sansa opened her mouth to question him something in his stare made her opt to follow along. Pausing, she pursed her lips in thought, before cautiously continuing. “I know he is Roose’s… son,” she meant it as a statement, but it came out more a question.

He hesitated, before nodding. She couldn’t help but lean forward as his voice dropped a few notches and he responded quietly. “Yes, he is. He is Roose’s son. But what do you know _of_ him, Sansa?”

Her mind flashed back to the whispers of maids about Winterfell in her childhood, of the spiteful little bastard that was Roose Bolton’s boy. By all accounts, he was deranged, something not quite right, cold and dark and cruel. 

She paled, and the nausea rose swiftly to the back of her throat. In fact, he seemed a good deal like Joffrey.

Ser Royce cut into her thoughts grimly. “Yes, very likely all of what you’ve heard is true, and it is in fact possibly worse than what you’ve imagined.” His eyes were cold, his countenance guarded, and as a myriad of thoughts swirled around her mind, she plucked one out and couldn’t help but let it free.

“Why?” It was the question she kept coming back to, time after time, when it came to Roose.

Not able to face her for the moment, Royce glanced out the window, likely ensuring they wouldn’t be overheard. Sansa waited patiently, too anxious to even sample a lemon cake, before he turned to her suddenly, eyes bright and intense, willing her to make the leap and understand. “You asked how long I’ve been with Roose?” 

She nodded, uncertain still how these could be connected.

“And you wish to know why what, exactly? Why Roose tolerates the behavior of Ramsay, his bastard son? Why he allows him so much leeway? Why he does not disown the boy, or worse, and be done with it?”

Sansa bit her lip and nodded, not daring to speak as it screamed at her with sudden clarity. He could see by the look of horror on her face that she had solved the riddle, and he nodded grimly before turning back towards the window, allowing her to process her thoughts.

She wanted to rail and scream, to cry, to comfort him and confirm it all at once. It couldn’t be true, could it? Roose gave his son a leash so thin and long it might as well not be a leash at all, simply because of the man before her? He couldn’t possibly think they were similar, simply because of the like circumstances of their birth, could he?

“There is nothing one won’t do for family, Sansa,” he said quietly, as she felt one tear start to fall. “Even if your son is a bastard.”

She felt the lemon cakes threatening to reappear as tears streamed down her face, and she couldn’t help but reach out and grip Royce’s hand tightly. His last thoughts made her close her eyes painfully, and she couldn’t bear to watch as he spoke his final words quietly out the window, in the direction of Roose’s back in the distance.

“Especially when you were forced to watch, all your life, your father beat, whip, and generally despise, your bastard brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who guessed it? Anybody??


End file.
